


Strategy

by hahaharley



Series: pastimes [2]
Category: Batman (Movies - Nolan), Dark Knight (2008)
Genre: Christmas, F/M, Gen, Hurt, Organized Crime, Psychological Horror, Slow Burn, Suspense, Thriller, Unresolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-18
Updated: 2013-09-13
Packaged: 2017-12-05 17:13:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 18
Words: 85,538
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/725796
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hahaharley/pseuds/hahaharley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Once a pawn makes it all the way across the board, she becomes a queen. Emma is not a queen. Yet.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Housekeeping Notes & Disclaimer: I do not own and never have owned the Batman series. The originals and their many interpretations belong to a whole bunch of people, and I'm not one of those. Sorry. However, Em and this particular narrative do belong to me, so you know the drill- no taking without permission, no uncredited/undisclaimed copying, etc, etc.
> 
> Since it was alluded to but never explicitly stated in Vivisection, I thought I should make a note of the fact that this arc takes place in a universe just slightly different from Nolan's canon. The idea is that after the events of The Dark Knight, Batman is hunted by the police, but doesn't give up his nightly activities the way he does in the verse presented by The Dark Knight Rises (which I loved, but which seemed like only one of several potential endings to the story begun in Batman Begins and The Dark Knight). Rather, he keeps on fighting crime, though it's considerably more difficult now that he's got almost cop in the city after him in addition to every criminal.
> 
> You definitely should read Vivisection before starting on this—Strategy contains major spoilers and assumes that you are familiar with the first story in the series. If you're all caught up, then read on and enjoy.

Nine months can bring a lot of change to a person's life.

It's late December now, and December in Gotham is gray, dim, sunless, and cold. The weather people tell us that we're in for record low temperatures that could be accompanied by early snowstorms, hiding their light anxiety behind strong voices and earnest faces.

Me, I shouldn't even _be_ in Gotham anymore. Heaven knows I've had some pretty influential people advise me to leave. After all, after the events of late February and early March of this year, the nightmare month which culminated in me walking away from a warehouse I'd set on fire, leaving the Joker and Batman fighting it out in one of the upper rooms, Gotham could hardly be said to have been good for me thus far.

Commissioner Jim Gordon said as much, once the flame burned to ashes, long after Batman dragged a beaten and insensate Joker out of the burning warehouses and abandoned him right before the police showed up to take him to Arkham Asylum, rendering him no immediate danger to me. They pulled me in for questioning, as they had to—I had been the object of the Joker's focus for a short while before the showdown, and as a result, conveniently present during several explosions that claimed the lives of _more_ than several people.

Fortunately, the suspicions against me were greatly lessened by the fact that the officers who had worked to plant that suspicion in the first place were proven to have been working for the Joker all along. They had surveillance footage of the whole thing—the two officers slaughtering the other cops in the station, releasing the Joker from his cell so he could reach me and physically carry me out—and it was pretty damn obvious that I wasn't going along willingly, considering the concussion he'd given me seconds before he grabbed me and the hazy struggle I put up. The DA didn't even bring charges against me.

That didn't stop Gordon from worrying. Despite the Joker's incarceration and the clearing of my name, he was of the opinion that I should get out while I could, flee home to Nebraska, and he told me so in his well-meaning way on my last visit to the station to tie up a few legal loose ends. I thanked him and told him, politely but neutrally, that I appreciated his advice, that I was thinking through my options and wanted to be sure that I was making the right decision before moving. He looked worried, but how could he argue? We barely knew each other; he hardly had the right to lecture me and we both knew it.

However, he wasn't the only one who held the opinion that Gotham was getting a little hot for me.

Shortly after it was all over, I was home one night. I was still living in the very apartment the Joker had broken into in order to cook up a batch of napalm for kicks one night, but I was looking actively for another—even if I wasn't sure about moving from the city, I had no interest at all in staying in an apartment for which I suspected the Joker had keys. I had accumulated a couple of bags of garbage that needed to be dropped off in the alleyway dumpster next to the building. I used to put this task off, worried about muggers, rapists, the various scumbags that made dark alleys into hunting grounds… but it didn't take me long to realize that the situation with the Joker, the several days spent in a near-constant state of intense fear, had caused something to snap. For better or for worse, I just don't seem capable of being properly afraid anymore.

More on that later.

At any rate, I picked up the garbage bags and went downstairs to the dumpster. I lifted the lid, slung the bags up and over, and then turned to go back inside—and found myself face-to-face with a huge shadow. The old me might have leaped back, screamed a little bit (or a lot). By that point, though, my reaction was limited to a slight jump of defensive surprise and then a slow blink. I waited for him to speak first, since he obviously was taking a risk to come here and talk to me (Joker gift-wrapped for the Gotham PD or not, he was still a wanted man), and he wasted no time.

"You should leave the city," he told me in a gravelly voice that was absolutely unreal. I'd never heard him speak before—during our brief encounter in the warehouse, he'd been much more focused on the Joker than on me, and at the time, given to much more wordless roaring than chatting (unlike his talkative nemesis, who didn't seem to be able to shut up even when he was getting his face rearranged). Hearing it now, I felt like I should shudder just to be polite, but was too preoccupied with what he was _saying_ to bother with the pleasantries.

With respect to the fact that I was pretty sure he didn't often pay house calls, especially after being accused of murdering Harvey Dent, I answered as clearly, quietly, and quickly as I could. Batman wasn't Jim Gordon, didn't have those kind, worried eyes, and although he may well have been carrying the world on his shoulders, I couldn't see exhaustion in him the way I sometimes saw it in the commissioner, even on limited acquaintance. I didn't think the truth would weigh on him the way I suspected it would weigh on Gordon, and so I gave it to him.

"I can't," I told him, finally giving voice to thoughts I'd been thinking ever since I left the warehouse that night, ever since I was free to run whenever and as far as I chose. "If I leave, I'll spend the rest of my life feeling like I'm hiding. And I can't… shake the feeling that if I _do_ go, he'll come after me. As punishment for thinking I could _ever_ get away from him."

"The Joker probably has the resources to follow you," he conceded, "but he won't. He thinks Gotham is his city; he won't leave it."

"Not even for a couple of days?" I asked quietly, peering up into the blackness that shrouded his face, imagining I could see eyes hidden there. "Long enough to nip out, brutally murder me, then come back?"

"You think you'll be safer right here in his home turf?"

"No, I think I'm not safe anywhere," I replied immediately, the quiet urgency in my voice matching the skepticism in his. "Not if he doesn't want me to be. And having the effrontery to run away from him is the surest way to ensure that he _won't_ want me to be. Do you understand?"

He was silent for a moment, long enough that I began to worry that he _didn't_ understand, but finally, slowly, he said, "He's in Arkham—for now. He's broken out before. If he manages again, if you're still in the city and he decides to come after you, I can't promise I'll be able to protect you."

I gave him a wry smile. "If he decides to come after me, I doubt the entire Gotham police force could protect me." He grunted, and suddenly getting the sense that he didn't have much more to say to me, I took a short step forward. He didn't move, and quietly, I said, "Thank you for coming for me that night. I know how risky it was. You gave me back my peace, at least for now. Thank you."

He grunted again. I got the distinct feeling that the gracious reception of gratitude wasn't exactly his forte and that my thanks may actually have embarrassed him. I quickly turned away, determined not to make a thing of it, and only turned back when he said my name (I didn't wonder how he knew. By this point, I was fairly used to mysterious men pulling my name out of a hat).

"I still think you should go," he growled succinctly from the shadows. "If he breaks out, I can keep him busy here."

I offered him a tired smile. "Not even _you_ can keep him busy all the time," I said gently. "He's gonna have spare hours to burn sooner or later. That's where I come in. Don't worry though," I said in farewell, turning away again. "If it makes you feel any better, I'm pretty sure he's too excited by the fact that you'll come out of hiding for _him_ to remember _me_."

When I turned my head again to try to gauge his reaction, the shadow had disappeared, leaving the lighter, naturally-shifting alley shadows in his wake. It was just as well. I didn't believe what I'd told him, anyway. Certainly, the Joker's prize prey was always, _always_ Batman—but I didn't believe for a second that he didn't have room in that voluminous mind of his to carry on several "projects" simultaneously. The Joker might come for me or he might not, and I didn't think it had anything to do with his level of distraction. No, it was completely up to chance and his whim. And, at least for the time being, swimming in this new haze of dead calm and unnatural fearlessness, I was at peace with that.

Batman and Jim Gordon were the only two people who advised me to leave. To be fair, the list might have been more extensive had my address book not been so scant. After the Joker incident, I dropped out of school—I only have two semesters left and I imagine I'll go back, but at the time, I knew better than to think I could focus on grinding out ten-page history papers when the immediacy of my own life consumed so much of my focus. After all, accompanying my new fearlessness—probably actively contributing to it—is a sense of hyper-alertness, masked with a steady hand and an unsmiling face. At every moment now, no matter where I am, I'm instinctively seeking out potential threats and plotting out my reactions should the threat become realized. It's become almost a game to me, and I've gotten very good at it.

Only once, late one night as I lay awake well past two a.m., did I think about visiting him in Arkham, and only then for a second before I angrily expelled the idea. I didn't care to wonder why it had come to me in the first place; my only concern was in making sure it didn't happen again, and after that one time, whichever sick, twisted little corner of my mind came up with _that_ idea fell totally silent.

The attempt to slowly, slowly return to normalcy—as much normalcy as I could achieve after my dealings with the Joker, anyway—was arrested by my great aunt's sudden death of a stroke in late May. I found myself on the first plane back to Nebraska, where I had grown up, to arrange the funeral and deal with legal affairs. I was vaguely startled by my lack of emotional response to Aunt Katherine's death. She had raised me since I was ten years old, after all, had become as dear to me as a parent, even if (or perhaps because) we both preferred our quiet solitude to chitchat and socialization. Still, my return to the house that had been my home for eight years inspired nothing but a faint sense of unrest.

That was when I realized that fear wasn't the only thing I lost in the warehouse that day. I searched my memory of the months between the last time I saw the Joker and my aunt's death in Nebraska and realized that I hadn't felt a single strong emotion since that night. Oh, there were vague traces—a smile of amusement here, a flicker of worry or sadness there, but they were all… muted. Like I was watching someone else react to things.

And, identifying this, I couldn't summon the worry I needed to care all that much. This was easiest. I wasn't _totally_ numb, after all, but it was as if my emotions were being run through a filter, being cut down to something easily manageable. It eliminated bad decisions hastily-made in the grips of extreme fear or anger or sadness. I trusted myself more this way, trusted myself to think rationally and to handle bad situations more effectively.

I could have stayed in Nebraska. Aunt Katherine's introverted nature, much like my own, had ensured that she was cut off from most people, including distant family, and so she left the house and her modest estate to me alone. I could have lived there in peace among the flat lands where I'd grown up, away from the gray city that had held nothing but trouble… and yet the inheritance made it possible to go back to Gotham, as well, something that wouldn't have been a reality for much longer, what with the loss of the scholarship I'd forfeited when I dropped out the spring semester.

I took care of the funeral. I dealt with the legal issues. I put the house up for sale. I flew back to Gotham. Part of this decision was exactly what I told Batman—that I believed moving away would draw the Joker's attention—but part of it was that the longer I stayed in Nebraska, the more restless I felt, the more uneasy. I didn't know why I felt this way, nor did I care to dig for a reason. I simply knew that I needed to get back to the city.

Once I returned, the uneasiness went away. I found a new apartment near Cathedral Square and a job working at a fairly upscale hotel, manning the front desk until eleven o'clock at night. I kept a holstered stun gun in my bag, always within reach, and, given the fact that I was far less reserved about walking down dark streets alone than ever before, had occasion to use it several times.

In July, I drove upstate to a gun fair in a county with more relaxed regulations and bought a revolver. My stun gun is best for business that takes me out and about, but I keep the loaded gun in a shoe box beneath my bed. If the police raid my apartment, I'm in deep shit, since the gun is unregistered, but I'm less worried about cops than the alternative.

I took up calisthenics and kickboxing and watched my arms and legs change slowly, going from skinny and soft to hard and taut. I'm only 5'3; I'm never going to be a physically imposing person, which means that my advantage must lie in deceptive strength, speed, and, essentially, cheating, taking advantage of the fact that people will always underestimate me. I understand this and so I work to improve my chances in a fight—I don't plan to involve myself in any, but I want to be prepared. Just in case.

In August, the Joker broke out of Arkham and folded himself seamlessly back into the Gotham underworld. I felt like I was holding my breath for weeks, but as time passed and he didn't show up, I started to breathe again. That was when the dreams started—not nightmares or terrors, nothing to inspire insomnia, but… it seems as if he's making an appearance in all of my dreams. Usually, he's just sort of lounging around in the background, observing, sometimes commenting sarcastically on the proceedings. Sometimes, though…

Sometimes, he gets up close and personal, all invasiveness and knife blades and bony, bruising fingers. And it disturbs me—not too much, but disturbs me nonetheless—that I don't wake up from those dreams afraid.

It's winter now, or about to be. I'm at work, safe indoors from the thirty-degrees-and-dropping temperatures outside, and the sun is going down. My job is fairly easy—I give new arrivals their keys, handle customer complaints, run night logs, things of that sort. It would all be too tedious and too small to bear if not for the fact that after dark, I get hours of undisturbed time, hours to think and read and think some more.

Tonight, though, has been a rough one, a fact betrayed by the painfully split skin on my knuckles. Normally, annoying customers bother me no more than moths bumping around a light bulb, but tonight I was thrown a curve ball. Tonight, I had a large group in town for a Christmas family reunion, and the daytime clerk had mistakenly under-booked them, presumably thrown off by the last name in common and not realizing just how many people there would be. They all rolled in at nine o'clock in the evening, when management was all gone and it was essentially me and the janitorial staff on the clock.

I managed to find new rooms for the unexpected extra numbers, but the confusion drew the process out longer than anyone would have liked. I'd sent most of the group off to their respective rooms and was beginning to see the light at the end of the tunnel when someone seized my elbow from behind.

I didn't think. I reacted. I twisted around and slammed my fist as hard as I could into the guy's jaw. Problem being that he wasn't a mugger, rapist, or sick psycho terrorist—just a cranky customer who thought it would be safe to put his hands on me. A year ago, he may have been right, but like I said, nine months makes a difference. I'm stronger, more on edge, and _much_ more likely to hit first and ask questions later.

I didn't apologize, though I probably should have. I just stared at him, and he seemed too shocked to make a big deal, just putting his head down and shuffling away in a hurry. He won't stay cowed forever, though. Eventually, he's going to process what happened, and if he doesn't press charges, he'll at least have my manager on the phone to call for my head. I'm not worried about being charged with assault (I think I have a legal leg to stand on, what with the defense that he had grabbed me and I felt unsafe), but as far as my job… I honestly don't have the energy or will to fight my superiors if they decide I'm a liability to the hotel. I may not have a job to return to tomorrow.

The thought doesn't bother me the way it should, but I'm used to that by now. I focus instead on a fact that's becoming harder and harder to ignore.

This incident makes four—four times that I've reacted violently to people who may or may not have posed a legitimate physical threat to me. Twice I used my stun gun on men who had approached me on my way to the train at night (there's a station near my apartment, and since my car was stolen by Joker henchmen early this year and since I only really go to the gym, grocery shopping, and to work, places that are all located within two blocks of a train station, I figured it'd be easier to ride the rails these days).

Once, a guy got huffy with me _on_ the train because I'd made it quickly and explicitly clear that I was not interested in his advances nor did I feel obligated to pay attention to him, and so, acting like the rational adult he was, he stood by the pole nearest my seat, looming over me, glaring at me, and muttering foul things under his breath. I sat dead-eyed and unresponsive until we reached my stop, then, unwilling to take the chance that he might follow me from the train, I decked him on the way out. It stunned him long enough for me to get safely off the train just before the doors closed. I knew at the time that I could easily run into him the next time I took the train, but I accepted it and did what I needed to in order to eliminate the perceived threat. So far, I haven't seen him again, but I've got the stun gun ready if I do.

The point is this: I've had some time to do some research and self-evaluation in the past few months. Hyper-vigilance is one of the most significant and telling symptoms of post-traumatic stress disorder. My inability to let my guard down combined with my increasing proclivity for violence all point towards the disorder (and that's not even getting into the dreams).

And it's all because of _him._

By rights, I should be seeing a shrink, but even if I _could_ afford to fork over $300 an hour just so someone could tell me in various ways that I need to stop repressing my trauma and work through my memories of the event so I can heal, I'm just not… _concerned_ enough to subject myself to that, not concerned that these changes are for the worse. After all, I'm stronger and more dangerous now than I ever was before, and that's a direct result of my experience.

I'm not saying that I'm glad it happened, and if I could go back and stop myself from going into that bank, if I could remove every trace of that madman from my life, I would… but I'm not sure it would do any good. While I don't spend much time philosophizing and have no interest in dwelling on the idea of fate, I _do_ suspect that there's no escape from certain eventualities, that there are fixed points in the timeline of a person's life. The Joker was one of mine. I have accepted the event, along with its side-effects, and I may as well focus on the silver lining. Namely, that I no longer live in fear.

Eleven o'clock rolls around and my replacement shows up, looking half-stoned, as usual, and so of course he doesn't noticed the scraped and broken skin of my hand. I turn the desk over to him without telling him about the little confrontation—he doesn't need to know—grab my coat, purse, and stun gun, and beat a quick retreat.

The frigid air rushes against me as the door opens, but aside from snapping my teeth together and tightening my jacket, I ignore it, keeping my head up and eyes open so I can keep an eye out for possible threats.

There aren't that many people out at this time of night and in this kind of weather. It's bone cold, must be in the teens at most—and even gangbangers don't seem to have the energy to prowl around tonight.

It's a short walk to the train station. I stick close to buildings and move quickly, maintaining the appearance of being relaxed. The train is at once the best and the worst part about the trip home. On the one hand, it's well-lit and does not necessitate me crossing through dangerous areas on foot. On the other, if someone unpleasant gets on, I can't really avoid them. I just have to stick it out until I get the opportunity to move.

One might think that I'd be wary of the train after what happened last March, but the tiniest hint of superstition in me comes out here—I'm weirdly convinced that making a concession to the incident, by avoiding the train or letting myself be nervous about it, I'll only be giving power to the association. Jinxing it, as it were.

So, I ride the train. And so far, aside from the incident with the impolite passenger, nothing bad has happened. I doubt tonight is going to be an exception. The train car only holds two other people, an old man sleeping in the back and a middle-aged woman with a bruised face.

I've had enough time for introspection at work, so I spend the train ride winding down (or what passes for winding down these days, anyway) so I'll be able to get to sleep soon after I reach my home. I slow my breathing and force my tense muscles to relax. I can't shut it off completely—my eyes still obsessively track any and all movements and I'm constantly preparing myself to react in the event of danger—but I can uncoil that tight spring of tension just a little with effort.

My stop is two blocks from my apartment. I tighten my coat and get moving. Fortunately, no one disturbs me and I disturb no one. A hobo hunched by a trash can fire calls out to me as I pass his alleyway, but I ignore him and he doesn't pursue. I reach my building safely, jog up the two flights of stairs lit by flickering bulbs, and finally reach my apartment.

Again, though, I'm far from relaxed. I have a routine, and I stick to it. First, I checked for forced entry before going in—scratches, splintering of the frame, etc. Finding none, I let myself in and lock the door and two deadbolts behind me. Next, I check every room in the little apartment, making sure the windows are whole and locked and that there are no unpleasant surprises awaiting me.

Only when I'm sure that my apartment is clear and tightly sealed with me inside it do I let my guard down, just a bit. I shed my clothes and climb in the shower. I work out when I get up rather than before bed—exercise tends to wake me right up, and I have enough problems sleeping.

Once I'm clean and dry, I put on long gray sweatpants and a black tank top and go to the refrigerator to find food. There's some pizza left over from yesterday, and I settle down in front of the TV with it. This is the best part of my ritual—getting lost in fictional drama as my food digests and my hair dries. I know better than to think my house is safe, but this is the closest I ever feel to it.

I get to bed around 1:30. It's not easy for me to quiet the noise in my own head for long enough to fall asleep, but fortunately, I don't have to—being so aware, so paranoid all the time is exhausting, and without fail, my body and mind both shut down shortly after the aforementioned routines are put into practice.

When I wake, it's to a vague feeling that something is wrong. I'm used to waking up abruptly in the middle of the night—it's become routine, as has lying in bed awake for an hour afterwards, waiting to fall asleep again.

This time, though, there's something tickling the back of my bare arm, which has fallen out from beneath the covers. Also not unusual. My hair is long and I often lose strands here and there, so, still drowsy, I twist my other arm behind me to stop the offensive tickling, thinking _I swear, if it's a spider…_

It's not a spider. My hand collides with solid, animated flesh. Warm fingers lock around mine.

I gasp, launching myself into a sitting position and twisting to look. I just have time to see a ghastly white face floating in the dark of the room and register, for the first time in nine months, a spike of fear, before—

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments, kudos, and support and/or feedback of any kind is more than welcome, even if you just want to yell at me for leaving you a cliffhanger on the first chapter :)
> 
> Look for an update mid-to-late week, and buckle up-- the lack of Joker in this chapter will be compensated for thoroughly from now on.


	2. Chapter 2

I wake up with a headache, though "wake up" is perhaps too generous a term, considering how dizzy and sick I feel. Following a suspicion, I reach up and touch my left temple gingerly, wincing at the sudden flare of pain.

_Damn it._ So it wasn't just a dream.

Groggily, I struggle upright, fumbling for my bedside lamp. The flutter of fear I feel in the two or three seconds before I find the switch is almost gratifying—I thought I'd forgotten how to be afraid, but apparently, the thought of flipping on the light to find the Joker sitting inches away from me accomplishes what walking down dark streets alone in Gotham could not.

Imagine that.

The light goes on to reveal—no Joker, but I'm fairly sure the room shouldn't be spinning the way it is. Moving before thinking it through, I lean over the side of my bed—and promptly fall off, earning another stabbing pain in my head for my trouble. If I had a choice, I'd pass out again right here, but my body is alive with pain and fear, sensations that shouldn't be familiar after the months I've had since I felt either in such excess, but are—and I'm nowhere close to unconsciousness.

Nausea, though, I can get on board with that.

But now's not the time. Just because the Joker's not in my room doesn't for one second mean he's not still in the apartment. I seem to remember promising myself that I'd shoot him if he ever invaded my home again, and I do my best to go about following through with that promise now, scrabbling blindly under the bed for the shoe box that holds my gun.

I can tell as soon as I get my hands around it and start dragging it towards me that the box is too light, but gamely, not exactly trusting my perception after that stunning blow to the head, I get it out and pop the lid off to check anyway. Some ammunition remains, but bullets are pretty damn useless without a gun.

I groan, pressing my hand to my head injury, which appears to be bleeding lightly. Grabbing the bed with my other hand, I hoist myself to my feet and stumble towards my purse, which is hanging on the closet doorknob. I overturn it, not particularly concerned with the noise I'm making—if the thump of me falling off of the bed didn't alert him to the fact that I'm up and about, then he's gone deaf (which is perhaps more of a possibility than I'm giving it credit for, considering how much time I presume he spends in close proximity to explosions) and I shouldn't have to worry.

A few seconds of sifting through the contents of my purse later, I accept defeat. My stun gun has been removed as well. I've got one more weapon before I'll be forced to leave my bedroom in search of kitchen knives, and I move towards the closet. The room hasn't stopped spinning, and I have to grasp the doorframe to keep from falling over. Unwilling to step fully into the closet—I feel fairly sure I'll trip and fall if I do, and if I don't, then I get the sneaking suspicion that _someone_ will come up behind me and lock me in—I grope gingerly around the edges, searching for…

_There._

My fingers close around the cool handle of my aluminum baseball bat, and unsteadily, I drag it out of the closet. I haven't had much opportunity to use it since I got my stun gun and at the moment I feel like a stiff breeze would knock me over, let alone a confrontation with the Joker, but I refuse to face him completely unarmed. Not this time. Even if I can't swing the bat without falling over, I might as well put up a strong front.

This established and bat in hand, all I have left to do is find out where he's lurking.

I don't have far to go. My bedroom overlooks the combined living room and kitchen area, and as soon as I open the door (with a horrifying creak), I can see the back of his head rising up over the back of the couch. The TV is on, some awful noisy cartoon providing the only illumination in the room and turning the place blue, and as I catch myself on the doorframe, his head moves, turning just a little—not enough to reveal his profile to me, but enough to let me know he's aware of my presence.

"Don't _hover_ , Em. Take a seat."

His voice isn't loud, but it carries over the obnoxious screeching of the cartoon all the same, raising chills I'd thought I was no longer capable of getting along my skin. For a second, I think about cracking him hard in the head and making a break for it, but I know him too well. He'll dodge or shrug it off, and anyway, in my position, I wouldn't manage to get past the locks on the door. That is, assuming they're still there.

Swallowing back the sudden metallic taste on my tongue, I make my laborious way across the room, finding it wisest to obey him at the moment. I give the couch a wide berth, moving tremulously instead to the armchair arranged perpendicular to it—it puts me much farther from the door, but on the plus side, it means I won't have to share the couch with the Joker, ergo I can keep a close eye on the bastard. Not that it'll matter if my vision doesn't straighten up soon.

It gets so bad that I stumble and fall—directly sideways into the chair, fortunately, and I immediately use the bat as a sort of cane to push me upright, though I still can't seem to find the energy to sit as tense and vigilantly as I should.

The Joker appears to pay me no attention whatsoever. The black eyes are fixed on the television screen, lips pursed as he probes the inside of his cheeks with his tongue, blue light reflected off the white paint covering his face. Normally, I'd be more than happy to wait for _him_ to start talking, totally willing to sit and stare at this rare demonstration of the clown in repose (and apparently taking _Adventure Time_ as seriously as _Schindler's List_ ), but the pain in my head just seems to be getting worse and I'm afraid that if I leave it too long, I'll pass out again.

I can't do _that,_ not now that _he's_ here, so taking my cue from the pain in my temple, I rouse myself enough to ask, "What… did you hit me with?"

Aside from twitching his hand, the Joker makes no response, but the motion turns out to be all the response I need. I recognize my revolver, resting treacherously in his loose grip.

"I thought you didn't like guns," I mutter, the pain in my head too intense for me to summon the will for louder tones.

"They have their uses," he replies, eyes still locked on the TV. The cartoon finally goes to commercial, though, and even as he lifts his other hand to mute the volume, his eyes roll sideways in his skull, finally coming to rest on me.

In the brighter light provided by the commercials, I realize that his pants and waistcoat are dotted with damp, fresh stains that look black in the light, and I wait for the fear to spike again, but it stays steady. _Guess his presence isn't a cure-all after all,_ I think sarcastically, and without pausing to think it through, I nod at him and ask, "How much of that blood is yours?"

He seems surprised and looks down at himself, as if he's forgotten that he resembles Patrick Bateman on a bad day. After a second, he looks back up at me, and, eyebrows raised speculatively, he guesses, "Uhh, about ten percent?"

Oh. Good. So he's not _nearly_ as incapacitated as I might have hoped. _Well, that makes one of us,_ I think, sighing heavily with the pain and slowly leaning back against the chair, the bat loose in my grip. Honestly, I'm not even sure why I'm still bothering to hold it—the pistol-whipping, as I'm sure he intended, has made me damnably docile for the time being, and I doubt he's going to wait around long enough for me to recover.

He's looking back at the TV, watching some old Billy Mays infomercial (pointless since the TV's muted, if you ask me), apparently perfectly content to let me steer the conversation. I reach up with my free hand, caressing my injured temple with a wince, and I say honestly, "I was expecting you sooner."

I get the immediate feeling that it was the wrong thing to say. His eyes roll devilishly towards me and the corner of his mouth twitches. Belatedly, I remember the very last exchange we had, realize that he'll take my expecting him _at all_ as proof that he was right ( _he's not,_ screams a little, panicked voice in my head, _I just know I'm not so lucky_ ), but before I can scramble to cover my tracks, he clears his throat into a fist and finally strings more than two words together.

"And _I_ —uh, _I_ thought you'd be _states_ away by now, with your hair dyed black and a shiny new name. It's good to know you're not the _only_ one who was wrong, isn't it?"

No… no, when he says it like that, it just makes it look even worse. Like I was intentionally _waiting_ for him. I respond sharply, an easy thing to do considering the pain I'm in. "If I _did_ run, would it have kept me safe?"

"Come _on,_ Em," he says, catching his bottom lip between his teeth in exaggerated disappointment, "nobody's ever _safe._ Not _really._ "

I clench my teeth together. Understanding finally penetrates the hazy pain—this is wrong, this is all _wrong,_ and it makes me uneasy. We shouldn't be sitting civilly across from one another in my living room, chatting like only slightly-hostile exes, not after our last encounter, not after all I've been through since then. We should be duking it out, but with that one well-placed blow to my head… well, I'm not exactly feeling feisty, and he shows no sign that he's in the mood to push things further.

Still, I'm not willing to just sit here and while away the night catching up with him. I'm not so thrilled by the reappearance of my fear, as sporadic as it seems to be, and I'd like to know how much I've got in store for me _this_ time. Still, not exactly strong enough at the moment to ask what he wants (and not entirely sure I won't get an answer that's pure bullshit, either), I defer, asking sluggishly instead, "So why _now?_ What made tonight special?"

His lips fall downward in an exaggerated frown. "What, I gotta have a _reason_ to visit you now?"

He's not doing much to discredit that slightly-hostile exes association. "No, but I bet you've got one all the same. Is Batman taking the night off or something?"

A part of me, muffled by the pain, is dimly aware that I shouldn't be sassing him. He's already been putting up with my mouth with remarkable forbearance for him. The next smart word could well be the one to make him snap, but despite the timely return of my sense of fear, I seem to have reverted to the recklessness that characterized our last few meetings. Nine months, gone in a blink. Who'd have thought his return could so easily demolish everything I'd worked to establish?

For his part, his eyes seem to glitter in the dim light in what could be either amusement or warning (or maybe both). "Why don't you tell _me_? Have you… seen him _around_ lately?"

I give a short, humorless bark of laughter and slouch further back in my chair. "Only once. Shortly after he put you back into Arkham."

" _Really._ "

On some level, I realize that I should be more worried by his tone, but I can't seem to shut up. "Oh, yeah. He thought I should move. I told him I doubted it would slow you down too much."

"Atta girl," he purrs. "Didja know he's been _lurking_ around you like some big, hulking _peeping Tom_?"

"I did not know that," I reply after a second, though already my brain is making the logical leap. "Let me guess—he was making routine checkups on me once you broke out? You waited for him to decide you'd forgotten about me, to stop taking the time to look in on me before you pounced?"

"Who's _pouncing_?" he demands, sounding almost playful. "I haven't laid a _hand_ on you."

"No, just the butt of a gun," I say wryly. The pain is still bad, but the dizziness is starting to recede, thank God. I tighten my hold on the baseball bat again, feeling a bit more game for battle if it comes to that. I don't know; this visit has been unusually low-key so far. It may well just be a pre-emptive catching-up-with-you call before the _real_ fun begins.

He regards me with something that I would fondness if it wasn't couched in that bitterly unnerving face, and clears his throat again. "Well, uh, Em," he says, casually adjusting the edges of his purple greatcoat, "to answer your _question,_ I'm here because I was in the neighborhood, doin' a little _business,_ and I happened to think of you. I thought, 'hey, it's _Christmas,_ and I haven't gotten Em a _present._ '"

"I don't need a present, thank you though," I say immediately, instinctively understanding that if I allow him to go on, my carefully-constructed world of the past nine months will crumble beyond repair right before my eyes.

I may as well not have spoken at all for all the notice he takes of me. He lifts his chin, eyes rolling thoughtfully up to the ceiling for an instant before he picks up seamlessly where he left off. " _So,_ I got to _thinkin'_ … what is it that Em wants? _Clothes_? …no. _Jewels?_ No, _no_ —she's not _that_ kinda girl _._ Guns? _Now_ we're getting' somewhere, but if I know my Em, she's been proactive on that score. And whaddya know, I was right," he says with a touch of smugness, lifting the gun again to catch the glint of the muted TV.

I'm silent, though my fingers tighten so hard on the bat that I feel my knuckles grow cold as the blood leaves them.

The Joker releases a long, hissing breath from between his teeth. "So," he resumes, lowering the gun again and this time tucking it away, "what do you get the woman who, er, doesn't have much on her wish list?" He levels me with a look that's entirely too predatory and self-satisfied for my comfort. "You know what I decided on?"

I manage—just barely—to stop myself from snapping back _"Tickets to Cirque de Soleil?"_ Instead, I just stare at him, waiting.

As previously established, he doesn't need an interactive audience in order to put on quite a show. He lifts a bony white hand and puts it dramatically to his bloodstained shirt, over his chest, and answers his own question. "Quality time with her _best friend,_ of course."

The only sound for a second is the whine of the muted TV—I'm not even _breathing_ for the moment immediately following the declaration. Finally, though, I shatter the tableau by voicing the very first half-pitifully-confused, half-scornful thought that crosses my mind. "You are _not_ my best friend."

He takes this in stride, blinking heavily once, twice, and then demanding, "Who _else,_ then? Hmm? Batman? The… _Commissioner?_ I'm all ears, _sweetheart,_ but I gotta tell you, I don't see anyone else taking time out of his, ah, _busy_ Christmas schedule to come _visit you._ "

I open my mouth to say _I don't_ _ **want**_ _anyone visiting me,_ think better of it (who knows how he'll twist and interpret that declaration in that mind of his), and blurt instead, "It's only December twentieth. I mean—twenty-first _now,_ but—"

"Is it?" he interrupts, feigning surprise—or maybe it's real, I don't know. I doubt he keeps track of the date unless it relates to one of his schemes. "Oh, good. We've got some time, then. On that note—" he reaches into his waistcoat pocket, and I tense, not knowing what to expect, but he just withdraws a ticking silver pocket watch, flipping it open to consult it. "Ahh. You've had about forty-five minutes to shake off that _head injury_. What do you think; are you good to _drive_?"

Shock ripples through me. Pain momentarily forgotten, I stare as he squints questioningly at me, either unable or unwilling to understand what he's asking me. "Wh—what do you mean?"

"Well, you see," he says, clicking his watch closed and tucking it back into his waistcoat as he stands, his bones snapping and popping as he straightens his back, bracing his hands against it and stretching with a groan, "I've got a little _holiday fun_ planned for this Christmas, and, ah, Em? You're coming with _me._ "

_To hell with that._ I weigh the advantages of standing up (he won't be looming over me like Nosferatu, at least not quite as much, and I'll have more room to swing my weapon) against the disadvantages (it'll almost certainly whip up my dizziness again, plus it'll decrease the distance between us). I decide it's worth it, and I struggle upright, clutching the bat. "If you think I'm leaving this place with you willingly—"

"Oh, who said anything about _willingly_?" he counters rapidly, looking baffled. "I mean, _sure,_ a guy has _hopes,_ but you gotta be prepared for _all_ eventualities. At least, that's what my _scout_ leader always said."

I've had about enough of his bullshit. I put my other hand to the handle of the bat, fully prepared to crack it across his ribs and follow up with a blow to the head, but the sudden sound of an electric crackle freezes me in place. From one of the many pockets of his heavy coat, he's produced a stun gun— _my_ stun gun, and he triggers it in warning.

"Unless you wanna know what, uh, a million _volts_ feels like, Em, you'll abandon whatever schemes you're hatchin' in that little head of yours and _cooperate_." I stare, mesmerized (and not in a good way) by the blue sparks jumping between the two prongs of the weapon. He glances over at it, and then, conspiratorially, hunches forward a little, confessing, "I kinda hope you choose to behave. As fun as it would _be,_ seeing how long this li'l thing knocks you out, I'd be _pretty_ grumpy if I have to _drag_ you all the way outta here."

"Oh, you bastard," I say flatly, but what can I do, really? Sure, it's tempting to just be a pain in the ass and force him to physically carry me out of here, but the bottom line is that I'll be leaving with him one way or another, and do I really want to add to the head injury? I'm fairly sure I'll be racking up war wounds soon anyway; I don't think I want to take my chances with the stun gun just yet.

I drop the bat. He nods as if he'd expected nothing less, licking his lips once before powering down the weapon and gesturing pointedly towards the front door.

" _Move._ "


	3. Chapter 3

As I turn towards the door, the Joker considerately cuts the television off. It gives me a second to feel a bit of a draft and identify its source in an open window—scratch that, a _broken_ window which must then have been unlocked and opened. I'm surprised I didn't wake at the sound, but before I can dwell on it, the Joker gives me a shove towards the door. "Move," he says again.

I obey. The locks on the door take me a second, and he hisses impatiently behind me as I fumble at them—I almost demand to know why he's in such a big hurry all of a sudden, but think better of it.

The door finally swings open, and I start to move as ordered, but he catches a fistful of my hair from behind and pulls me back. I reach up instinctively, my fingers working at his, trying to loosen his grip, but he doesn't even seem to notice as he growls a quick word of instruction in my ear. "You keep two paces front, _one_ to the left. Move _fast._ Head for the parking garage."

He thrusts me forward, releasing my hair, and I rub my sore scalp resentfully even as I scurry into the indicated position, moving as quickly as I can without breaking into a run. I _had_ considered chopping all my hair off to avoid problems like this, several months ago, but as with the train, I was vaguely convinced that making any significant physical changes would lend power to the association.

Much good my superstitions do me _now._

He's right on my heels, and I think he's following this closely on purpose, trying to make me rush so that I can't be accused of disobeying his instructions, just because it'll be _funny_ to make me hurry. I fight the temptation to just break into a run, to try to escape the feeling that I've gained a very dangerous shadow. The staircase is a relief just because it necessitates us being on two different levels while we're on it, and as I take the steps automatically, I try not to think too hard about this new scheme of his. I can feel… fear, both foreign and familiar, that rush just below my skin, and I think I'm upset by its return, but there are more important things to consider just now.

The downstairs hallway is the last long stretch leading to the parking garage provided by my building. Predictably, this is where we run into trouble.

A door flies open about five feet in front of us, and a middle-aged woman steps out, head turned as she shouts into the apartment "—and try not to burn the fucking place down while I step outside!" I freeze up immediately, unwilling to continue along the path that will have me colliding directly with her in just a few paces, and I can feel him stepping up close behind me, his chest brushing against my shoulder.

The woman turns, sees us, and immediately locks up. Her eyes skip over me completely, understandably drawn by the tall, gaunt, purple-clad and bloodstained figure next to me, and her lips part and her eyes widen in fear as she realizes that _no, that isn't a man in a tasteless costume, that's actually_ _ **him**_ _,_ though wisely, she doesn't make a sound.

I nervously turn my head a fraction, looking at him out of the corner of my eye, trying to figure out what this will mean. He seems as taken-aback as either of us, though judging by the garishly exaggerated expression of surprise, he's putting on an act. He licks his lips quickly and glances from side to side and over his shoulder before hunching forward some, head coming level with mine. Almost experimentally, he says, "Uh. _Boo._ "

The woman squalls and flips around, fumbling at the door, dragging it open and disappearing inside unbelievably quickly. I hear the locks click firmly in place a second after the door slams shut— _believe me, lady, if he wants to get in, locks aren't going to keep him out_ —and I carefully turn my head again to look at the Joker.

He's staring at the closed door, probing the inside of his bottom lip thoughtfully with his tongue, but almost as soon as he feels my eyes on him, he turns his attention to me again. "Goodwill toward _men,_ " he says knowingly, tilting his head forward and all but pressing his painted forehead against mine. "Doesn't it just _warm_ your heart?"

Before I can respond, he gives me a sharp push, and I decide it'll be best to just keep my mouth shut and move. As I move towards the door that will release us into the parking garage, I do think about running—but where? I'll just be running right where he wants me to go, anyway, and I have no doubt that he'll be able to herd me precisely in the direction of his choice. He still has the gun, after all.

I reach the heavy exit door and push it open, but the second I step outside into the cold garage I lock up. It is _impossibly_ cold—granted, I'm barefooted and wearing just a tank top and gym pants (I hadn't thought to ask if I could get a coat, but I doubt he would have consented anyway), but even so, it feels as if the temperature has dropped twenty degrees since I left work. Either that, or I'm just now noticing how cold it really is. After all, the Joker's return seems to have had the effect of re-sensitizing me to some degree; why not with cold as well as fear?

For a split second, driven by nothing but the primal need to stay warm, I'm tempted ( _only_ tempted) to wheel around and crash into him, to wrap my arms around him beneath that heavy coat and leech from his heat—I know firsthand how hot he runs. Before I can abuse myself for the notion, though, his hand grips my upper arm with bruising force.

This time, he doesn't seem interested in shoving me along—it appears that I need some guidance from this point forward, so, gripping my shoulder tight, he comes up alongside me and begins the trek through the garage, setting a pace that has me practically running to keep up. I just pray that I won't trip and fall—with his grip on my arm, it'll almost certainly result in a dislocated shoulder if I do.

I manage to stay upright as it becomes apparent that we're headed towards one car in particular—an ancient Mercedes, boxy and dull, dark blue. He pulls me to a halt, and as I turn to regard him warily, he gropes in his coat pocket for a moment, emerging with a set of keys. He rattles them, looking at me.

" _Okay,_ kiddo," he says cheerfully. "Here's the deal. _You're_ gonna drive, and I'll be _right_ behind you in the backseat, just in case you get tempted to, uh, get _creative_ in traffic."

I stare at him. "I'm gonna—?"

"Well, come _on,_ " he says, a touch impatiently. "Even at, ah, _four a.m._ it's not a great idea for me to be flashing this face around for any _pig_ that's halfway paying attention. No. You drive. I monitor. Got any problems with that?"

As a matter of fact, I have a whole host of problems with the arrangement, but he's starting to look antsy, probably as aware as I am that the woman we encountered certainly called the police and that we have a rapidly-closing window in which we must escape.

That is to say, _he. He_ has a rapidly-closing window in which _he_ must escape. _I_ don't need to escape the police, I need to escape _him._

He's gotten tired of waiting for a response. With a flick of the wrist, he wings the keys toward my face, and I barely have time to get my hands up and catch them before they hit me. Keys in hand, I lower my arms and glare at him, and he laughs through his nose as he crosses to the driver's side of the car, pulling the door open and gesturing to the steering wheel with a flourish.

I glower, but that's all I'm brave enough to do. I move to the car and climb in behind the wheel, and my feet are barely clear of the door before he slams it shut. In the split second of silence that follows, I consider locking the doors, starting the engine, and peeling out of here, taking flight to somewhere, anywhere but here—but even if he _didn't_ have a gun and even if I _had_ a place to go (last winter's adventure proved that police stations, at least, are out), I know it would be utterly futile. This is a man who has escaped from Arkham twice. He owns at least a part of the police force and is exceedingly resourceful—at least, he always seems to be able to track me down wherever I go.

Escaping him entails much more than just removing myself from his physical presence. I know this better than most. Just _how_ to escape him completely I haven't yet figured out, but as soon as I do…

The back door opens and the car shakes and sinks as he drops into the back seat. This is an old car, old enough so that it has bench seats without consoles dividing them down the center, and correspondingly, the backrests are solid from one side of the car to the other—I'm thankful that there's at least a half-barrier between front and back, even if there's still plenty of room for him to reach into the front and do some damage. "Okay," he croons, high and soft as he settles himself, adjusting his greatcoat. "Let's make tracks." He thinks twice, leans forward, and pokes me in the shoulder. "Uh. That's just a figure of speech, Em. What you should _actually_ do is drive like a grandma. Not _my_ grandma, though." He laughs. " _That_ would be counterproductive."

I silently reach forward to start the car, and after struggling against the cold for a moment, giving me a second's wild hope, the engine turns over. _Ah, well,_ I think as I check behind me, _it wouldn't have slowed him down, anyway; he'd have just stolen another one._

As I back out of the parking space, I absently pull my seatbelt over my shoulder, clicking it into place. I imagine I hear him scoff a bit, but I ignore it—if he wants to go flying through the windshield in the event of a collision, that's his business and none of mine. Not that I intend to get in a wreck (somehow, I doubt it'd slow him down much and probably will piss him off more than anything), but again, I don't want to risk any more bodily injury than is inevitable.

As I put the car in drive, I realize something. It's totally stupid, but still, I can't stop myself from blurting, "I don't have my license with me."

He shifts some, and I feel it when he leans an elbow on the shoulder of my seat. "Well," he says speculatively, "just one more reason for you to _avoid_ getting pulled over."

I glance sideways at his face, hurriedly looking back through the windshield when I see that he's watching me attentively, and he chuckles. "What's _that_?" he asks. "You wanna know what _other_ incentives I've got for you to behave?"

"No," I say flatly. "Dead cops and bullets in the back of my head are good enough."

He laughs shortly, and the weight of his arm lifts as he leans back into his own seat. I pull up to the mouth of the parking garage and come to a stop, glancing in the rearview mirror. The white face stands out against the dark clothes and shadows of the back seat, giving it the effect of looking eerily disembodied.

"Left or right?" I ask, though the question is mostly rhetorical—the sound of sirens is coming definitively from the left and getting louder.

The Joker, though, surprises me. "Hmm," he says, pretending to think, "…left."

I stare at him, feeling my pulse jump in my throat. "You can't be serious."

His only response is a significant look that makes me think better of pursuing the topic further. Silently, swallowing the fear that we'll get caught and that this will finally be the time they decide this has gone beyond coincidence, that if I'm not the Joker's active accomplice then maybe I'll be safest locked away in a prison anyway, I turn onto the main road.

We make it a few streets before the first flashing set of red and blue lights hits us, and the Joker fluidly drops down, sprawling casually on his back across the long seat, out of view of the windows. More lights follow the first set, and I'm practically rigid with tension as they draw closer—but they simply pass me by, so eager to land their prey and uninterested in pale little women driving in the opposite direction.

"Turn right here," the Joker instructs me from the back.

I'm not foolish enough to continue asking questions. I obey, and as we drift down the road at thirty miles per hour, the flashing lights gradually disappear from view.

Despite this, the Joker seems perfectly comfortable lying on his back, which has the decidedly uncomfortable effect of removing him from my immediate line of vision (that is, unless I want to twist and turn around to look, but something tells me that would be a bad idea). I try to ignore the fact that I can't see him, but it's difficult, especially when his disembodied voice floats up eerily from the backseat. "So, Em. What have _you_ been up to lately?"

_Ah, so this is the catching-up-with-you chat I was expecting_. I don't think surliness will be well-received, and since I'm not brave enough to test the theory at the moment, what with him as good as invisible behind me and the chills creeping up the back of my neck, I respond as neutrally as possible. "Oh, you know. Work, home, work, home."

" _That_ doesn't sound very interesting."

"Yeah, well. I think I've had enough of _interesting_ for a lifetime."

He laughs lightly, briefly, but there's an edge to it that puts me on guard. "Oh, come on, now," he purrs. "You don't _really_ believe that, do you?"

I hesitate for a second before deciding it'll just be safest to refrain from responding. Suddenly conscious once more of how cold it is—the low temperatures have sunk into my flesh and appear to be working their way towards my bones—I reach instead for the heat.

There's a sound from behind me, a movement so fast I don't even see it, and then arm is stretched over the backseat, his hand is gripping my wrist hard enough to bruise, and his voice is hissing in my ear. "Looking for something?"

I lift big eyes to the rearview mirror and I can see the edges of that white face, just visible behind my own. _Stupid, stupid,_ _ **stupid**_ _._ I've forgotten how to move around him, how careful one really must be to avoid attracting more attention than necessary. Reaching unexpectedly and without announcement for _anything_ is not a clever thing to do. I swallow hard, hoping that the fact that I'm driving will spare me another head injury, and I manage to say, "Just… trying to turn on the heat. It's—it's freezing."

"Hmm," he grinds out, sounding far from convinced, but his grip loosens a bit, fingers becoming rigid as he draws the tips along the skin of my arm all the way back to the elbow, testing, and it's all I can do to refrain from jerking violently away. I need the brownie points, so I hold still, despite the fact that his touch raises almost painful goosebumps in its wake and I want nothing more at the moment than for him to just pull back and _stop touching me_. After a second, he appears to reach a conclusion, and he takes hold of my wrist again (this time almost mockingly gently) and moves my hand back to the steering wheel. As soon as I'm back to the standard ten-and-two, his arm reaches forward further and cranks up the heat.

I release a quiet breath of relief as hot air begins churning from the vents, but I can't relax, not entirely, not with him still hovering just behind me. His voice doesn't help, either: as the cab heats up, he speaks one word with horribly deliberate sarcasm: "Better?"

"Much. Thank you," I say, fear making my tone clipped and confused.

He chuckles, and I imagine I can feel it stirring my hair, prompting a shudder that I hope he doesn't pick up on even as I resign myself to the fact that he probably will. As if reading my mind, he pulls back, but before I can even start to hope that he plans to withdraw completely from my personal space, he reaches up again to brush my hair back before resting his hand ever-so-casually on my shoulder. The wide space between forefinger and thumb fits neatly around my neck, his thumb pressed against the nape and fingers hanging down to rest loosely against my collarbone. By instinct, I immediately try to hunch away, shrug his hand off. He doesn't appear to notice.

"Turn left here," he advises me, tapping his index finger against my clavicle. I obey in silence, hoping he can feel the waves of single-minded resentment and ill will just rolling off me.

But no. It's remarkable how good he is at playing oblivious. _Well,_ I think despondently as I right the car and drive steadily onward, _at least he's warm._ I don't think I could sit beneath his grip if his hands were ice cold.

His voice is in my ear before I can try to talk myself into relaxing. "You haven't asked what _I've_ been up to, Em."

I have nothing to say to that, but pressure from his fingertips alerts me to the fact that he expects a response, so I force a bitter laugh. "Plotting, I figured. Sparring with Batman, recruiting henchmen, gathering funds—I don't know, what do you _normally_ do when you're out of jail?"

"Ah, _Arkham_ ," he corrects, giving me a chiding little squeeze.

"Right," I mutter. I glance in the mirror, hoping to soothe my nerves by tying his voice to his face, to rid myself of that unnerving feeling that he's not a human but some sort of evil spirit clinging to my skull, but I still can't see any more than a glimpse of white paint here and there. He's effectively hidden behind me, only his arm visible hooked over the back of the long front seat. I can see the gap in his sleeve stretching from mid-forearm to neatly-buttoned cuff, can see the skin of his arm showing through, and it doesn't exactly help things. I swallow and look back at the road. He chuckles a little. I try not to take it personally. After all, who knows what's going through his mind or what he's laughing at?

"Anyway, you're, ah, _spot on_. Ya know, you show a pretty remarkable understanding of the criminal lifestyle." I stay silent. I have no idea if he's being sarcastic or not. I'm not sure which one would be worse. "If I recall correctly, I offered you a _job_ last time we saw each other."

"Yeah, and if I remember it correctly, I turned it down."

"Oh, but are you _sure_ you won't reconsider? We're always looking for… _team players_."

I'm almost certain he's taunting me, not that I would respond any differently if the offer was genuine. "If I say yes, will I still be a hostage?" I challenge him.

"You'll still be playing the _role_ of hostage, _that_ won't change," he assures me quickly. "Only _now_ , you'd be getting _paid_ for it."

I shake my head. As much as a part of me wants to play along in hopes of currying favor and finding a chance to escape, there's a smarter part of me that's fully aware that there is no favor to be had with this man. All I'll be doing if I accept his offer is ascending to some new and much more foreign level of this twisted game. I've done hostage before. I plan on sticking with it until I can graduate to free and clear. "Sorry, but I'm going to have to turn you down again."

"Awww," he croaks in my ear, making me quench another shudder as the hairs on the back of my neck rise. "Ah, well. More's the _pity_ , I guess. Merge onto the freeway here, that's it."

I obey his instructions and feel my heart rate picking up accordingly—and if _I_ can feel it, I know _he_ can, what with his fingers nestled right against my pulse point. I can't help it, though. The freeway's taking us further away from the brighter side of the city, away from the side with more skyscrapers and fewer broken street lamps—not safe, _never_ safe, but more familiar and better-policed. I don't have to ask where we're headed anymore. We're on a straight path to the Narrows.

By the time the Joker laughs through his nose, _hmm-hmm-hmm_ , I've resigned myself to the fact that he'll feel my fear through his fingertips. "Oh, Em," he says, sounding far too cheerful for my liking. "Are you _scared_?"

"Yes," I answer honestly, aware that lies won't fly with him, and I can't seem to keep the slight touch of wonder out of my voice. After so many months living in a sort of pleasant haze, with no extreme emotions and, importantly, no _fear_ , this is so strange. It's like cutting into a tree trunk, expecting to be met with more bark, only to have the tree start to ooze blood.

"Aww," he says again, this time with his perfect rendering of sympathy, and the pad of his thumb is stroking against the nape of my neck, a motion that would be soothing coming from a friend or a lover. Seeing as he's neither, it just strikes me as alien and uncomfortably forward.

Not that he's any stranger to forwardness. I get a sudden flash of that hazy car ride months ago, heading from police station to warehouse, where he arranged me so I was resting with my back against him, sleeping off the chloroform he'd administered as he draped his arm around my shoulders (it's hazy, I was drugged), and my jaw tightens grimly. I think if there's anything I can conclude from my dealings with this man, it's that he has no concept of personal space.

_No, that's not right._ I'm sure he understands the _idea_ of personal space, it's just that it benefits him to flaunt and abuse it, to get up in people's faces and violate their boundaries to show them how tenuous and frail societal mores are. _These rules won't save you._

_Ugh, am I thinking like him again?_

The touch that began as a sort of heavy, almost bruising stroke has faded almost absently to just a light brushing, and I think: _you know what sort of touch this is, you're enjoying appropriating something that should be kind and tender for your own sick use, you bastard._ If I had any space to do so, I'd jerk away and twist around to fend him off to the best of my ability, but… well, that's one of the shitty things about being stuck in a car with the Joker. There's nowhere to go.

"So," he says suddenly. "You're scared. But _despite_ this, you're not _resisting_ , and you're not, uh, you're not asking me _why_ or _where_ or _when_. You used to be so _inquisitive_ , Em, but listen to you now. Not a _peep_. What do you think I should take out of this little _personality change_ , huh?"

"Maybe that I learned my lesson," I say, as dryly as possible under the circumstances. "You know, you're not exactly the most straightforward guy when it comes to answering questions."

"Hah," he says softly, a smirk in his voice. "You sure it's not just cause you're happy to _see_ me?"

"Oh, are we still harping on that 'best friend' bullshit?" I snap irritably.

It would appear I've taken my defiance just one step too far. In a split second, his formerly free hand is twisted in my hair, jerking my head back sharply so that I have to struggle just to see the road, and as the car swerves across two (fortunately empty) lanes, I spot his face out of the corner of my eye, head cocked forward into the front seat so he can get a good look at me while he lectures me.

"Careful, Em," he growls, and I can feel his breath gusting over the side of my throat. "You hurt _my_ feelings, then who've you got left, really?"

"Okay, _okay_!" I grind out, trying to right the car and keep an eye on the road without losing a chunk of hair. "Let me go, I'm gonna wreck if you keep—"

Blue lights flashing behind us stop me mid-sentence.

_Shit._

He lets go of my hair, twisting his head around to look out the back windshield at the police car in pursuit. He releases a quick, strangled sound of annoyance and then snaps his attention back to me, the hand at my shoulder suddenly clenched instead around my throat. "Look what you _did_."

The sudden pressure on my windpipe is painful, fills me with a sudden urge to cough, but without the wind for it all I can manage is a pitiful little gag. Fortunately, he doesn't seem interested in choking me to death here and now—while it might be satisfying, it would almost certainly result in a wreck, and he can't afford that right now. He simply indulges in that urge to strangle me for a few seconds before dropping his hand abruptly, and as I cough and gasp for air, he shifts behind me.

"Move over," he says impatiently, draping his arms over the center back of the front seat.

I stare at him in the mirror. "Mo—you mean pull over?"

"No," he says, drawing the word out and infusing it with more meaning than should be possible for just one syllable— _of course not, idiot, if I meant pull over I'd_ _ **say**_ _pull over, wouldn't I_ —"I said _move over_. Get in the passenger seat. It's _my_ turn to drive."

"I—" I begin, but he's already reaching around my shoulders with his left arm, grabbing the steering wheel over my hand, and I draw back instinctively from the touch.

As much as I know I'm going to regret this, I pull my feet back from the pedals and slide across the front seat, safely depositing myself into the passenger seat and pulling my seatbelt on right away. The car is slowing down without me at the gas, and the police are drawing nearer, probably lulled into a false sense of security by the slowing vehicle. _Boy, are they in for a surprise_.

The Joker moves ridiculously quickly for a man of over six feet stuck in the sitting-room-only interior of the Benz. He wriggles over the backrest and plunks himself down behind the steering wheel almost before I can blink, and then I'm thrust back into my seat as he floors it. Giving me a sharp sideways glance, he barks a quick warning: "Do anything _stupid,_ you get a _bullet_ in the gut. Hurts like _crazy._ You understand?"

"I understand," I respond. Frankly, interfering with whatever he's planning is the last thing on my mind. Had I ever stopped to think about it, I might have realized that the sight of the Joker behind the wheel is one that inspires complete terror, and so really, at the moment, I'm more worried about dying in a horrible fiery car accident than about helping the cops catch us.

The lights behind us fall back some, but they quickly regain the lost ground as they recognize his intent to run. Slouching in my seat, I shoot a quick, panicked look sideways at him. "You think they know it's you?"

"Not yet," he muses, one hand on the wheel as he gropes in his coat with the other, eyes darting from the road to the rearview mirror as he grimaces—but even now, careening down the freeway in flight from the police with a kidnapped woman cringing in the passenger seat, I can't read any signs of panic in his rolling eyes or the quick, jerky movements. I have no idea how he's not afraid. Me, my fear is back and it's apparently making up for lost time. My heart hasn't pounded this hard since the warehouse.

The speakers on the cop car blare to life behind us, clearly audible even over the roar of the engine. "THIS IS THE POLICE. PULL OVER IMMEDIATELY."

"Good idea," the Joker hisses almost to himself, hand emerging from his coat with a gun—not my revolver; this one's sleeker, more sophisticated. I vaguely place it as a semi-automatic, one of those terrifying weapons that spits out a dozen bullets a second—I've seen him use one before. "I like _mine_ better."

Another set of lights joins the first. _That was fast._ Considering the appearance of the gun, though, I'm guessing that our entourage is about to get much bigger.

He drops the gun in his lap and lunges sideways towards me. I bring my hands up reflexively, but he only unbuckles my seatbelt impatiently, then grabs one of my wrists and yanks it towards him, placing it on the wheel. "Slide over, champ," he orders. "Be generous with the _gas,_ wouldja?"

He doesn't wait for me to agree before releasing the wheel entirely, and I find myself lurching across the seat to grab it so we don't crash. As I scramble for the gas pedal, uncomfortably aware that I'm in too-close proximity to him ( _again_ ), practically crushed against his side so I can manage the car (which makes dodging his sharp fucking elbows as he moves difficult, let me tell you), he locks a magazine into place. I shoot him a quick, fearful look. "You're not really going to—"

" _Yep_ ," he confirms laconically, working the window down, and the blast of frigid air renders me momentarily speechless, delaying my panicked protests long enough for him to twist around and get his arm out of the window.

"Shit," is all I manage to say before the harsh crackle of the gun sets my ears ringing. I hunch away from him as far as I can while still maintaining tenuous control of the car, glancing at the mirror in time to see one of the police cars careening off sideways and hitting the guardrail.

The Joker whoops. " _Got_ _him_ ," he announces triumphantly before sending another spray of bullets towards the remaining vehicle. These guys have wised up, though, and a second before the report of a return shot sounds, he ducks back into the car, hunching down behind the backrest and inspiring me to follow suit a split second before the bullets come whizzing through the back windshield.

"Shit," I cry out again, and he grabs my hand, jerking the wheel sideways.

" _Weave_ ," he instructs sharply. "You _really_ don't wanna see what'll happen if they shoot out the tires." With that word of advice, he pops up and out again, and I do my best to obey without wrecking us as I try to keep my head down and bullet-free at the same time. This makes watching the rearview mirror a little bit difficult, so I miss whatever happens next, but the Joker laughs and abruptly returns to the driver's seat, tucking his gun away before grabbing for the steering wheel over my hands.

I jerk them out from under his and start to slide away, but that goal is thwarted and I'm flung back against him as he suddenly twists the wheel hard to the right, taking us across four lanes of traffic without so much as checking his blind spots and cutting across to the exit. I grab for whatever I can to keep myself from falling off the seat and end up with one hand locked around his knee and the other clamped over my mouth hard in order to suppress the scream boiling in my throat. I'm thrown across the seat, so I can't see shit, but judging from the high-pitched squealing, we're seconds away from a brutal accident.

When the sound isn't immediately followed by crunching metal and the smell of blood, I tentatively lift my head. We're zooming up the exit ramp, and behind us, I can see several cars still reeling from his vehicular acrobatics. Neither of the police cars is in sight, and their backup must be further down the road. I release a trembling breath as I look front again.I'm still alive, but that phrase about frying pans and fires has never been more relevant. Now, not only have I been kidnapped by the Joker, but I can't imagine we have more than a one or two minute window before more police show up in pursuit—and while one might imagine that the involvement of law enforcement would be a _good_ thing, I know from experience that when cops get involved, everything just gets messier. More people get killed. Certain _other_ people run the risk of being used as human shields. At the moment, I think I'd prefer the police to stay out of it.

I look cautiously up at the Joker in time to catch him glancing exaggeratedly from his lap to the road and back again. "Um," he says politely.

I glance down to see that I'm still holding onto his knee for dear life. I recoil, jerking away immediately, and to the sound of his mocking cackle, I shift across the seat, putting as much distance between myself and the madman as I can.


	4. Chapter 4

The peace (relatively speaking, of course) doesn't last for very long. After a mere mile or two of convoluted route (a mile or two that I can't help but notice has taken us into a neighborhood that looks sketchy as hell), the Joker parks the damaged car. Well, "parks" is putting it a bit generously, considering that half the car winds up on the curb, but I'm not in the mood to quibble.

I watch as he climbs from the car, brain racing to make sense of this new development. _Of course,_ I realize belatedly, _we can't keep using this one, not now that he's gunned down two cop cars and the police are looking for it_. I stay where I am, unsure of what I'm meant to do, and after a second, he ducks his head back in to peer at me. I anticipate a snippy comment, but he just stares thoughtfully at me for a second. I expect he's trying to decide whether to drag me along as he steals a new form of transport or leave me to wait, banking on my being too cold and too scared to run.

Another movement, then he gives a twitchy sort of shrug and reaches for me. "Upsy-daisy, Em. Let's go."

I'm beyond arguing, at least for now, not after what I've just been through. I silently slide across the seat and even manage not to flinch as he grabs my elbow and jerks me out (since apparently I'm not moving quickly enough for him). He sets me on my feet, shuts the door, locks the car, then winds back and wings the keys deep into a nearby alley.

"C'mon," he says, hunching his shoulders and beginning to stride jerkily down the street. I linger for a moment, wondering foolishly how he plans to _make_ me, but when he doesn't so much as glance over his shoulder to see if I'm coming, I realize that my choices are incredibly limited. It's freezing out here and this neighborhood is terrifying, all boarded windows and vague shadows in the alleyways hinting towards predators waiting for the opportune moment to pounce. At this moment, I'm probably safer with the Joker than alone.

I've never hated a mere concept before, but at the moment I'm feeling pretty unfriendly towards irony.

"Damn it," I mutter, and, holding my arms tightly across my middle to try and ward off the freezing wind, I hurry quickly to catch up, attempting to keep an eye out for broken bottles and such with the limited light I have. I don't think he'll take kindly to the idea of carrying me if I slice my bare foot open, and— _irony's being a bitch again_ —I certainly don't want him to leave me here for the vultures.

He appears to take no notice of me as I catch up, head busily swinging back and forth and lips parted absent-mindedly as he assesses the street. Whatever he's looking for, I'm guessing he doesn't find it—he pulls his lips back from his teeth for a split second, releasing a brief growl of annoyance, and then abruptly switches directions, cutting in front of me and heading directly into one of the aforementioned sketchy-dark alleyways.

"Damn it," I snarl again, but unwilling to risk being separated from him for too long and getting lost in the freezing dark, I plunge in after him immediately.

That worry about the dark is unbelievably warranted. The light from the one functioning street lamp on the road we just left fades after only a second or two, leaving me with only the sound of his purposefully-scuffing shoes to guide me, and I put a hand out instinctively as I move, feeling around in the cold blackness. After a second, my fingers collide with the heavy material of his coat, from the feel of it at the point where his arm meets his shoulder, and since he doesn't jerk away or give any indication that he's noticed, I grip his arm and follow as quickly as I can without stepping on the back of his shoes (which I imagine would be met with a sharp blow from out of the dark—even _I_ feel like hitting people who do that to me; I can't imagine how much it would annoy _him_ ).

And of course it's too much to hope for that we'll emerge from the alley without any problems. Of _course_ it is. _This is a Gotham alleyway,_ I remind myself as I hear a new set of footsteps. I feel the Joker's arm lift under my hand as he slows, and, assuming I'm being told to stop, I obey. He sighs heavily as a rough voice snakes towards us: "Hey, man. Gotta light?" The voice is sinister—intentionally so, I'm sure—and half-laughing. I guess the line's a sort of in-joke to muggers.

The Joker speaks, his own voice lively and high compared to that of the shadow in front of us. " _Sure_ ," he says, and I wonder if the mugger can hear the danger coiled in it the way I can. Then again, _I_ know who I'm dealing with. Still, I imagine I can hear the guy take a step back even as a click echoes through the black alleyway, signifying the exposure of a knife blade.

The Joker's coat rustles as he digs in his pockets, completely unhurried despite the fact that I'm pretty sure a weapon's just been pulled on us, then murmurs "ah- _hah_ " as he finds what he's looking for. His arm moves beneath my hand as he lifts it, and the scraping sound of flint reaches me a second before a tiny flame flares to life right in front of him.

The sight of that disembodied white face floating in the blackness, bordered by distorting shadows as the lighter flame flickers, is almost enough to send _me_ running. I catch a glimpse of rough stubble and the whites of the mugger's eyes as he realizes his mistake, and then the Joker's other arm shoots forward.

I've never actually heard the sound of a blade ripping through flesh. Despite the fact that the Joker obviously appreciates his knives, each of my encounters with him earlier in the year seemed to end with gunfire rather than knife blades. Sure, he's nicked me here and there, but that's just a light scratching sound as the skin is severed, and only then if you're listening. This is much louder, a sickening squelch as he buries his blade to the hilt in the mugger's gut, then an actual wet tearing as he yanks it upwards towards his ribcage. The whole time, he holds the lighter steadily aloft, casting the faintest glimmer of light on the whole gruesome scene, illuminating the mugger's horrified face as he realizes he's being eviscerated.

Then, in a flash, the Joker jerks the knife back and carelessly shoves him towards the wall, and the mugger falls into it with a gurgling groan. The Joker clicks the lighter closed and puts it away again, _tsk_ ing disapprovingly as the mugger's moans begin to fill the alleyway, and then he reaches up and grabs my hand from where it's still resting on his shoulder as if frozen there. "Sorry about that, Em," he tells me in a tone that makes it pretty clear that he's anything but as he tucks my hand beneath his arm and resumes the walk through the alley as if nothing had happened.

I can't find the strength to do anything but follow. My stomach should be turning sickening somersaults, the way it did the first time he killed a man in front of me (and the second, for that matter), but despite the gap of time that has passed since the last time I saw evidence of his lethality, I seem to have adjusted to the sight of death. After all, it's harder to be shocked and appalled by killing when you've killed two men yourself. Even so, I'm getting flashes of the sight from just moments ago, of his stomach opening to reveal white and pink and red all painted vaguely orange by the flickering light—

_No_ , I tell myself firmly as we finally emerge from the alleyway to the next street. _Don't you dwell on it, not now, not while you're still in danger. You've already seen your fear return, you can't afford to start feeling conscience now, too, not while you're in his grasp. Whining about his casualties is a good way to find yourself joining them._

The Joker releases my hand abruptly once we reach the light and makes a beeline across the street. I see the same thing he does—a black sedan, neither small nor big, not sleek or boxy or bulky, just… there, totally nondescript. In other words, the perfect getaway vehicle. I cross my arms tight again and follow more slowly, trying to ignore the fact that the icy pavement burns the soles of my feet and watching to see what he does.

He delves into the coat again, and I watch with an odd blend of disgust, bemusement, and fascination as he re-emerges with several strips of flexible metal. He starts locking them together, and I can't hold back a scoff as I realize that he's putting together a makeshift slim jim. His eyes roll towards me even as his hands work, and I find my shoulders hunching half-defensively, half-apologetically. "I just—what are you gonna pull out next, a full-sized lamp?"

"Ah," he says absently as he steps forward and jams the tool down past the driver's window, "you're welcome to come _feel around_ for one."

The vaguely insinuating tone in which he says it throws me off too much for me to even think about replying, so I just sit in silence until the lock pops open a surprisingly short time later (or unsurprisingly, I suppose, considering who I'm with). The thought of the Joker flirting is just a little bit too much for me to handle at the moment, especially given the fact that I've just seen him kill yet another person and he still has some blood drying at the base of his thumb (I imagine he wiped the rest off on his already-stained waistcoat), so as he jerks the slim jim free and yanks the door open, I just circle around to the passenger side in meek silence.

Aside from unlocking the passenger door for me, he seems more interested in noting his new surroundings than in pursuing my discomfort at the moment. I watch him, wondering idly if I'm about to witness my first hotwiring, but it seems that nothing so sophisticated is in order—another dive into the coat yields a screwdriver, which he jams into the ignition, and with a rough twist, he brings the car to life.

"I swear I'm getting you a Swiss army knife for Christmas," I say without thinking, and immediately direct my eyes forward, not wanting to see the significant look I'm sure he'll give me in response to the notion, however idle or flippant, that he's on _my_ Christmas list the way I'm apparently on _his._

He's not letting me get away with it that easily, though. A heavy arm falls behind my shoulders and I feel his breath in my ear as he leans close. "Well, ya _know,_ " he says conspiratorially as I try my hardest not to cringe away and reveal my fear (and fail spectacularly), "I could always use more _grenades._ I mean, if you're looking for a way to express your _gratitude._ "

There's no way I'm taking _that_ bait. I just sit in silence, waiting for him to withdraw, and when he doesn't, hard as I might try, I can't stop my eyes from darting momentarily to his, wondering why he won't just _get out of my space._ He laughs through his nose, doubtless enjoying this clear evidence of my nervousness, and only then does he lean back, arm slipping off my shoulders and leaving chill behind it. The interior squeaks as he twists around to check the backseat.

"Ahh," he growls in satisfaction, ducking down to rummage on the floorboards, and he returns abruptly with two objects. The first, he tosses at me, and I catch it and hold it up to examine it. To my surprise, I find that I'm holding a black fleece jacket—too big, and it smells like cigarettes, but at this point, I'm far from complaining, especially considering that I'd resigned myself to spending the rest of my life warding off frostbite.

I slip it on immediately with an instinctive, soft-spoken "thank you," and when he doesn't respond, I glance over to note two things. First, the other object he'd found in the back was a towel, and second—I can hardly believe it—he's using it to scrub the faded paint free from his face.

I'm immediately transfixed. I've never seen him without the mask of face paint, though obviously he has to take it off sometimes—practical needs such as shaving aside, he must strip it off routinely in order to apply it afresh again; new paint caked atop the old would start to look ridiculous very soon, and if there's anything this man is not, it's ridiculous. I've always been both fascinated and repelled by the rare glimpses of humanity I sometimes see in him. The idea that a fellow human being could be capable of the things he's done disgusts and impresses me equally, and now as the paint comes off, leaving big flesh-colored patches behind it, it throws the contradicting sentiments in sharp relief.

And even more disturbing than the conflict in my gut is the fact that I can't seem to help but notice one thing in particular as the makeup comes off. Even with the scars, despite the frame of matted green hair and the yellowed teeth, it's impossible to ignore the fact that the Joker was—is—an extremely handsome man. You don't really notice it as much with the makeup, especially considering the fact that the war paint marks him as something intensely dangerous, something _other,_ but strip away the distracting color and it's all too apparent that, scars or no scars, he would never have a problem attracting any number of people if looks were the only factor. I've noticed it before, of course—that paint can't hide lips and eyes and perfect bone structure—but never has it been so obvious, and never has it made me feel so uncomfortable and vaguely sick.

Before I get a chance to think about why, though, and before I become aware of the fact that _he_ has become aware of my indiscreet staring, I find myself with my face pressed against the glove box, his fingers curled bruisingly around the back of my neck to hold me in place and his head once again hovering too-near my own.

" _Curious_ , Em?" he purrs, giving my neck a painful squeeze that belies his almost innocuous tone of voice—which drops a guttural octave with his next question: "Or didn't your _mommy_ ever teach you it's not polite to _stare_?"

I scrabble for the glove box, trying to get my hands up so I can brace against it and push away from him, but he just lifts my head a fraction and gives me a harsh shake, like a mother cat punishing a kitten, before shoving me back against the dash. "I'm _sorry_!" I cry out, almost reaching towards him in a pleading gesture, but I check myself just in time—I figure that would be practically asking for a set of broken fingers. "I've just never seen you without the paint, I'm sorry _,_ you took me off guard!"

Far from being placated, he tightens his grip further, prompting a gasp of pain from me. "Oh, _I'm sorry,_ " he breathes, his tone making a mockery of the words, "did I spring it on you too fast? _Here_." He jerks me upright again, and, maintaining his hold on my neck, he reaches up with his other hand, grabbing me hard by the chin and wrenching my head around to face him. " _Stare._ Take a second to _get used to it._ "

Reflexively, as usual, I avoid his gaze, looking out of the far right corners of my eyes, out of the windshield. He shoots an impatient breath out through his nostrils, and his hand leaves my neck, only to return in seconds, and this time, something cold and sharp presses against the skin. "Oh, no, Em," he says, and his voice is low now, calm and free of the forceful growl that had stained it just seconds again. "You're _gonna_ look at me. There's no easy way out for _you_."

I think it's the utterly terrifying implications of that statement, the reminder that far worse things loom on the horizon than punishment for daring to look at his bare face, that lends me courage. Slowly, I bring my eyes back to his.

" _Thaaaaaat's_ it," he hums encouragingly, pushing his jaw forward, commanding attention. "Get a _good_ look."

I obey him. I let my eyes travel along the knotted skin of the scars, darker than the rest of his face, linger for a moment on the chapped lips, then move up the prominent jawline to finally look into his eyes. It seems like I've been avoiding them all evening, but even so, the difference is striking. Without the makeup ringing them, making them heavy and black, they are lighter—focused and steady, edged by light eyebrows normally consumed by the makeup, and perhaps it's just a trick of the dubious light, but… they look almost _peaceful._

_These are not the eyes of a madman._ I know it's a false, stupid thought even as I think it, but I can't seem to stop my hand from drifting up, index and middle fingertips brushing ever-so-slightly against the skin where his jutting jaw meets his ear.

He doesn't tolerate it for longer than an instant. He trades his painful grip on my face for a painful grip on my offending wrist in a flash, and he jerks my hand away from his face, flinging it back at me so quickly that it nearly collides with my chin. I could almost hug him for it, because as soon as he thrusts me back, I return to my senses.

_Slow the fuck down, Stockholm,_ I abuse myself soundly, more than a little shaken by my own actions as he flicks the knife away from the back of my neck and tucks it back into his pocket with an annoyed grunt. _The cozier you get with this psychopath, the sooner you'll wind up dead. Think you can remember that, or is the pretty face_ _ **that you've always known was there**_ _going to turn you into some cooing bleeding-heart?_

Even as I breathe heavily, recovering from the scare, I risk a quick glance at him. He's facing front again, back in his seat, and as I look over, he straightens his tie, jaw hitched almost mulishly. He's clearly annoyed, so I don't apologize again. I don't do anything to attract attention to myself, for that matter. I simply sit, quietly and still, as he puts the stolen car into drive and rips away from the curb with a loud screech.

As we go along and as I start to see more and more police officers, it becomes apparent to me just _why_ he saw fit to take the makeup off. Theatrics are all well and good when one _wants_ to be seen, but we're flying under the radar now, and white tends to catch the eye in the dark. Natural skin, on the other hand…

I risk another quick look. He's leaning over the steering wheel, neck craned as he peers up to check the sky, probably ensuring that they haven't called in air support, and in the shadows his scars are quite difficult to make out. I wouldn't bet on passing police officers noticing them the way they would face paint. If one pulled up beside us while we're stopped, though…

I'm just going to hope that doesn't happen. He's got at least two guns on him, and even leaving the extra bloodshed completely aside, I'm not looking forward to the prospect of one going off inside the enclosed space—my ears are still ringing from the shots he fired earlier, and the gun wasn't even inside the car then.

The safest place to direct my eyes is forward, and I watch the road silently. The route he's taking is unfamiliar and includes a lot of twists and turns, but judging by the declining neighborhoods and the increase of dilapidated abandoned buildings surrounding us, I'd guess he's headed for the Narrows again.

The clock reads 4:23. I think I've been with him for about an hour and a half, and I close my eyes at the thought. If he can cause this much mayhem in ninety minutes… unbidden, my brain flashes back to something he'd said earlier, when he found it out was only December twentieth: _"Oh, good. We've got a couple of days then."_

I'm not sure whether to be relieved or terrified at the implication that he plans to keep me alive—and judging that I've been with him for this long and have only suffered a few bruises as compared to the cuts, bites, concussions, and shards of glass studding my back that followed each shorter encounter previously, I'd say it's a fair assumption to make. I have no idea what he's planning.

_The old game ended,_ I think desperately. _Where can he possibly go from here?_

I'm afraid to imagine.

"You know, you're awful _quiet._ " His voice prompts my eyes to open, and I glance sharply at him, but he's only watching the road, fingertips drumming absently along the steering wheel. "I remember you bein' such a _chatterbox._ What happened?"

_Yeah, look who's talking,_ I think, but after the little outburst earlier, I have no intention of voicing the thought. Instead, I shift a little, tucking my hands under my arms (the jacket helps, but I'm still barefooted and still cold, and I'm not about to ask him to crank up the heat again). "I can't think of anything to say."

"Oh, I _doubt that_ ," he rejoins immediately, a sneer twisting along his lips for just an instant. "I bet you've got a _lot_ to say. You're just scared to say it."

"Well, can you blame me?" I snap, and I immediately regret it. The question amuses him, though; he chortles and then draws a hissing breath through his teeth.

" _That's_ it. _There's_ the Em I remember. Saying what _ever's_ on your mind the _second_ you get a little riled, no matter what, ah, _common sense_ deems wise. You were always good for a _laugh,_ you know."

"That's why, then?" I venture, even though I'm aware that I may be treading on thin ice. He doesn't reply, just rolls those disarmingly calm eyes to their corners to look at me for a second before returning them forward. I go on. It's what he seems to want, after all. "That's why you did this—why you're still doing it? Because you think it's _funny_?"

He squints, the skin around his eyes creasing deeply, and stabs the index finger of his right hand through the air at me several times. "That's part of your _problem,_ Em. You're obsessed with the _why._ Not that I _blame_ you, I mean, it's a common enough condition… but _c'mon._ Leaving aside the fact that it _is_ really funny—" and he extends his right arm as he speaks, cradling the back of the headrest casually with his hand, and I flinch away—"why does there _have_ to be a reason?"

"Because," I say, struggling to ignore the fact that there's only a few inches between that dangerous hand and my skull, "people don't just _do_ things. Even reflexive action has a purpose, usually self-preservation. We've talked about the survival instinct enough before—"

He's shaking his head, though, and I read the rough tap he gives my headrest as a sign to shut up. "Not even _you_ can tie our little games to an instinctive motivation, Em."

"I wasn't trying to," I argue.

"What, then?" he challenges, not missing a beat. "Come _onnnn._ What do _you_ think my moti _va_ tion is?" His tone is so laden with mockery that it throws me off, and I gesture wordlessly for a second until he prompts me with an impatient "Hmm?"

I settle on "Entertainment, maybe?"

"Well, I _do_ dress like a clown," he quips, pulling a pensive face for all of a second before letting it drop completely. "But no," he growls, turning his head to stare at me as we roll to a stop at a red light. "Ya see, about the _stupidest_ thing you could do is try to pin a motive to me. I'm gonna let you in on a little secret, Em— _riddles_ were never my schtick. Ya wanna know why?"

I lift troubled, unwilling eyes to his for a moment, but I can't quite manage to answer, too afraid of what he might say.

As usual, though, he doesn't require my participation. " _Because_ ," he says as my eyes fall again, pronouncing the word with relish, " _riddles_ can be solved. Because the way riddles _work_ —" and he taps the back of my seat hard, earning another flinch from me—"is that _naturally,_ if you have a problem, there must be a _solution._ Hey. Look at me."

I've learned the folly of disobeying that particular order by now. Silently, I look at him, holding his gaze even when the vinyl creaks beneath him as he leans slightly towards me. Quietly, in a tone totally devoid of theatrics or growling menace, he asks, "Do I look like a fucking _riddle_ to you?"

All I can do is swallow, and beneath the heavy weight of his stare, even that small motion takes effort. It seems to satisfy him, though, and he leans back, returning his attention to the road as the light changes to green.


	5. Chapter 5

His chattiness seems to have dried up, and I'm grateful, because it means I can stare through the window and avoid looking at him without him getting offended. Probably. I don't know, I never know just what will set him off and why.

Just because he's disinclined to make conversation doesn't mean that he's a quiet companion, though. My nerves are set on edge by his sporadic humming, unrecognizable tunes (almost certainly made up) that never last for longer than a bar or two, but every time he makes a sound, I tense up, preparing to defend myself.

By the time we cross one of the bridges into the Narrows, we've pretty much quit seeing cops, though I still hear sirens and I'm still on edge. When we don't get stopped on the way in, I feel a strange mix of disappointment and relief, and then the Narrows swallows us.

He doesn't stop. For about a half hour, he circles the island, finally stopping at one of the many marinas lining the neighborhood. From the looks of it, this place has either been abandoned for a long time or the people who use it are just used to the squalor—old, rusted fishing boats covered in graffiti, holes riddled throughout the loading ramps, scum floating atop the water.

He comes to a stop in front of one of the ramps, the front wheels resting on the tattered boards, and I suddenly feel a sharp fear— _no, what if he jams the gas and sends me down with the car into the water_ —

It is with this almost-certainly improbably fear in mind that I scramble out of the car as soon as he opens his door, but he's not paying any attention to me. He gets out, then turns again, fiddling with the interior as I stand off and watch, arms wrapped around myself. The engine revs, though the car stays put, and then he deftly flicks the gear shift, ducking out of the way nimbly and narrowly avoiding getting caught as the car lurches down the ramp and into the water.

Water which must be deep, I realize as the car starts tipping forward, apparently not running into the floor of the bay as water surges into it and takes it slowly down. I've never seen the weirdly gruesome sight of a car sinking away into icy black water before, and I stand transfixed as it tips nose-down and is sucked into the depths, too slowly and too quickly all at once. Only when it's gone from view and the bubbles churning to the surface are the only marker of what just transpired do I remember where I am and realize that the Joker has come to stand beside me, hands in his coat pockets, serenely watching as the surface smooths out again.

Then, he sucks his teeth and says, "Well. That's _that_ ," and turns away.

I glance once more at the surface, then turn and hurry after him, too aware that the Narrows is not a place for a small, unarmed woman to wander alone at five in the morning.

"Aren't you worried that they're gonna find it?" I ask as I catch up, falling into stride beside him.

"Nope."

I pause, but decide to press forward. I have a theory that he enjoys questions, to a certain extent—if not for the opportunity to twist them into traps for the innocent askers, then certainly for the opportunity to show off his admittedly impressive (if skewed) intellect. I wouldn't call vanity a _weakness_ of his, necessarily, but with all of his theatrics and twisted speech-performances, it certainly seems to be a favored indulgence.

"Why?"

He draws a hissing breath in through his teeth. " _Because_ ," he says on the exhale—"well, listen, kid—if the cops decided to drag the harbor, they'd find _much_ more interesting things than one little stolen car."

The certainty with which he says it chills me, though I don't doubt the truth of the statement for a second. Pushing the creeping feeling aside, I ask, "All right, fine, but what about _him?_ "

He glances sideways at me, and I flinch, expecting some retaliation, some acknowledgement that the question is too invasive, but he just harrumphs and mumbles, "You're not _that_ unlucky."

I tell myself that the sudden rush of chills down my spine is due to the cold instead of the implication that Batman's involvement at this stage would end badly for me, but I've never been good at lying, especially to myself. It always strikes me as just delaying the inevitable, and, more importantly, delaying a _solution_ to the inevitable.

Not that I imagine there's a solution to this whole mess. No, he made it pretty sure that this doesn't follow the rules of problem-solving. Even so, I find myself adding that cryptic comment to what I know so far, trying if not to make _sense_ of this little escapade then to at least plot it out a little.

I know that he picked me up with an eye towards the Christmas season, meaning that he's probably setting things into motion with the holiday as some sort of end point (or _beginning_ point). I know that if Batman interfered _now,_ it would probably end up with me following that car into the bowels of the bay, which strengthens my theory that he's planning something a little more long-term. And I know that everything he does, in one way or another, pertains to his eternal quest to lure Batman out to play.

It seems pretty evident that he has a strategy in mind, something bigger than the last time I was involved, more grandiose. The question I keep returning to—the question I can't seem to find an answer for—is where do _I_ fit in?

His shoes suddenly scuff to a stop, and I'm on the alert immediately, but he's only pausing at a rusted, hip-height gate that dubiously guards one of several squat duplexes lining the narrow street, all in various states of dilapidation and disarray. I look around as he fiddles with the latch and note that there are no lights in the surrounding buildings, no curious heads looking down on us, but even if there _were_ people around to witness the odd pair on the street below, it's unlikely that a police call would be in order. This is the Narrows. People keep their heads down and ignore whatever wrongs are being done around them. You don't want to get a reputation as a snitch in this neighborhood.

The gate slowly swings open with a loud creak, and the Joker steps through before glancing back at me expectantly. I look warily at the shoddy gate, the cracked concrete path and the large "Condemned" sign on the building and don't move, and he rolls his eyes and flings his arm out, grabbing my wrist and jerking me forward a few steps.

"Okay!" I exclaim, but he doesn't release me, closing the gate and then pulling me along towards the door like he might an unruly child. I don't argue anymore.

As we close in on the building, it suddenly strikes me that in just a couple of hours, I've had more physical contact than I have in the entire time since… well, since the last time I encountered him. I've never been a touchy-feely sort of person, but even so, this last year must have been a record low for me. I would feel more resentful about the fact that _he's_ the one breaking that trend if I wasn't so distracted by my current predicament.

The building's not much warmer on the inside, unfortunately. My feet are actually starting to go numb, but I don't think mentioning the chance of frostbite would be a very good idea. He's gone a good half-hour without getting annoyed with me; I don't want to give him a reason to pounce again (especially now that we're off the street and he doesn't need to worry about attracting attention).

The building is an old housing complex of some kind, and judging by the icy, stale air and the creepy silence, has been in a state of disuse for some time now. He takes me up a crumbling flight of stairs to a hallway lined with doors, and then, not bothering with keys, opens up the second to last door on the left and pulls me in, yanking the door shut behind us.

It's suddenly pitch black. I freeze once across the threshold, unwilling to move further into the dark. I feel the air move beside my head, hear a deadbolt clacking shut close to my ear, and then he finally releases my wrist. Oddly, though, instead of feeling free, I get the sudden foreboding feeling that I've lost a tether of some kind—to what, I have no idea. Sanity, maybe, though the idea of the Joker as anyone's tether to sanity is just… crazy.

If I'd thought the sharp, adrenaline-fueled panic of the car chase had been unusual and uncomfortable after my nine months of pleasant numbness, it's nothing compared to the sickening, dull weight of dread forming in my stomach and reaching thick tendrils up to my chest and throat, choking me. I can't see a fucking thing, and what's worse, I can't _hear_ anything, either—anything, that is, besides my own quick, shaky breathing, impossibly loud even though I'm making a conscious effort to keep my mouth closed and breathe through my nose. For once, my imagination with regard to what he has planned for me fails me, but instead of being the blessing I thought it would, it terrifies me completely.

Without the slightest warning, a shrill, diabolical cackle fills the whole place, high and racking and terrible, seeming to come from everywhere. I instinctively jerk backwards, my back slamming into the door, and suddenly the laughter is forming itself into delighted words:

"Wh—why, _Em!_ You're not afraid of the _dark_ , now, _are_ you?"

The strength has left my knees completely, and only by clinging to the door handle am I able to keep myself upright, because instinct tells me that hitting the floor would _not_ be a good move right now. Forcing past the strangling knot in my throat, I gasp shakily, "N—not—I'm more w-worried about what's _in_ it."

Silence follows, and I get this sudden horrible feeling that he's standing right in front of me, inches away, and I wish I was brave enough to reach out and feel around for him to confirm my suspicion, at the same time thankful for the cowardice that prevents me from doing so.

Another beat, and then light flares up, blinding me for just a second before I realize that he has soundlessly retreated several feet away and is holding the lighter he used in the alleyway just before he—

_No. Don't think about that._

His back is turned, and I have time to see that we're in a narrow hallway before he starts moving forward. Without letting myself think too much about it, I follow, unwilling to be left in the dark.

He takes a right into another dark room. I linger in the doorway for a moment, trying unsuccessfully to puzzle out where he's led me now by the scant, flickering glow of the lighter, but in another second, a much larger, brighter light appears, rendering my confusion moot. I squint against it, but finally, I can see- he's hunching over a table, fiddling with one of those propane lanterns, the kind people use in a rare event that a hurricane makes it this far up the Atlantic coast.

Its light is sufficient to illuminate the whole room, and I look around to see that we're in a cramped kitchen- full of battered cabinets and sporting a big, dusty, empty space where a refrigerator used to be, but unmistakably a kitchen.

I linger in the doorway, still uncertain, but he's ignoring me now, straightening up from the lantern to strip off the purple greatcoat and swinging it around the backs of one of the metal chairs lining the table. Considering that the table and chairs look new(ish) compared to the rest of the room, I guess that he's brought them here (or had them brought here), meaning that I am currently locked into the Joker's current hideout.

Either that or he's crashing some unfortunate squatter's place. Both are equally likely.

He methodically unbuttons his cuffs and rolls his sleeves neatly up to his elbow. I'm staring, mouth gone dry, wondering if he's preparing for some more messy work (please, God, no) or if he's just getting comfortable, when he says, without bothering to turn his head and look at me, "Come on in, Em. Have a seat."

Big surprise- I'm reluctant. I cling to the doorframe, watching him mistrustfully, which has the result of drawing his gaze. He stares blankly at me for a moment, lips slightly parted, and then he shakes his head a little, almost a twitch. "Well, you don't _have_ to if you don't want to, but if I were you, I'd enjoy the peace and quiet while I could."

I swallow hard and slip into the room, trying to stay as close to the edge and as far away from him as possible. He watches, an inexplicable light in his eyes that might be amusement- who ever knows? I reach the furthest chair from him and slowly sink down into it, putting my hands flat on the table and watching them for a moment before I get the courage to look up and ask him, "What do you mean?"

He doesn't answer. Instead, he reaches down and rummages in the pockets of his coat, all the while humming tunelessly. After a moment, his hand re-emerges, holding my gun, and I flinch, but he simply sets it down on the table directly in front of him and directly across from me with a resolute "clunk." Then, he turns away, watching me out of the corner of his eye until he's turned fully around, and he steps across the kitchen to the countertops to start looking through some of the upper cabinets.

And I stare at the gun.

_What the fuck is he doing?_ I think ferociously, eyes darting from the weapon twelve inches away from my hand to his innocently-turned back and then back again. _Is this a test? What the hell is he trying to prove, that I won't shoot him if I get the chance?_

Because I'm definitely thinking about it. I'm thinking about reaching forward, fitting my palm around the smooth handle and feeling the heavy weight fill my hand, thumbing the hammer back and then putting two in his chest as he turns in response to the click. I'm in full-fledged fantasy mode.

But that's all it is—fantasy. Because as much as I'd like to do myself, Batman, and all of Gotham a favor and drop him right here, there are far too many variables keeping me from closing those inches. For one thing, I have no idea if it's even loaded—oh, I always kept it ready, but he had plenty of time between knocking me unconscious and receiving me in the living room to empty the revolver. Even if it _is_ loaded—this is a guy who I'm sure has taken some bullets before, and I'd have to get a killshot right away to keep him from charging across the room and exacting immediate revenge, which would doubtless render me much worse off than I am now, if not dead. Until the whole mess with him started, I'd never even _held_ a gun, and there aren't many firing ranges for public use around Gotham. I'm not exactly a crack shot.

I know I promised myself that given the chance again, I would shoot him. Well, here I am, gun in front of me, his back turned—and I slide my hands off the table and clench them into my lap. I can't do it. Not now, at least. There are too many ways it could go horribly wrong, and in my situation, I have to weigh my risks very, very carefully. I'm not willing to take this one.

He turns around, and my chance is gone. I imagine I see a particularly knowing glint in his eye, and I resist the urge to flip him off, too aware that it'll probably result in a broken finger. The floorboards creak beneath his shoes as he approaches the table, a case in his hands, and he kicks the nearest chair out of the way, choosing instead to seat himself in the one directly to my left.

He sets the case down and picks up the gun. Eyes holding mine, he tilts it upright, clicks open the cylinder, and gives it a slight shake. Bullets come tumbling out, clinking onto the table and rolling around, several of them falling to the floor, and I can't keep myself from closing my eyes in momentary regret. _Damn._ When I open them again, that smug look is back on his face, and he clicks the cylinder shut before holding the gun out to me.

Uncertainly, I take it, watching him closely. Still holding the unusual silence, he opens the case in front of him and starts laying out objects—two little bottles, a crumpled chamois cloth, a pack of cotton patches, and a set of what looks like metal pipe cleaners. He draws a hissing breath, and, reaching over to his coat again, he says, "It's a _pretty_ gun, Em. Light, durable… revolvers are good, less chance of _jamming._ Of course, they're not as _safe_ …"

I snort, but aside from casting me a flickering glance, he does nothing. He withdraws yet another gun from his coat, a pistol I haven't seen before, and with a click he removes the magazine and sets it on the edge of the table. "But a _dirty gun_ is nobody's friend." With another quick move, he ejects the live round from the chamber and places it neatly on the table, then his eyes are on me again as his hands keep moving to strip the gun down. "When was the last time you cleaned _yours,_ Em?"

I stare at his bare face for a second. Sooner or later, my encounters with the Joker always take a turn for the bizarre, but even though I more or less expect it at this point, I still have no idea how to react when it happens. He's watching me expectantly, so I settle for shaking my head and hesitantly saying, "I… I haven't really had occasion to use it since I got it; I didn't… think there was much need."

He clicks reprovingly at me. "Ohh, no, no, _no,_ Em. _Disuse_ can be just as damaging, ya know." He reaches for a slim metal rod, delicately attaches a brush to it, and then takes one of the bottles and flips it over, dampening the brush with the contents. "Even without fouling buildup, you've got to worry about _rust_." With a quick jerk of the wrist, he shoves the brush into the barrel. With any other man, the move would be a deliberate one, accompanied by a hell of a lot more lecherous eye contact, but even before I chance a look at his face, I can tell that innuendo is not his purpose here, not now. His eyes are focused on the gun, his hands moving less haphazardly and more purposefully than I've ever seen them before, the muscles beneath the ashen skin of his forearm pulled tight with the effort of careful control.

This is probably the most serious I've ever seen him, and for a man who goes by the moniker _the Joker_ … well. It's strangely unsettling, and in a weird way, it feels as if I'm being intrusive.

He clears his throat, helpfully bringing my attention to the fact that I've been staring again. Fortunately, this time, he doesn't seem to take offense—he just says pointedly, "Ah—you might want to _pay attention._ There's gonna be a test on this later." I quickly refocus my eyes on the task at hand, not sure what he means but not wanting to chance his displeasure.

The next ten minutes are surreal in that they're almost… pleasant. At least, they would be if he was anybody else and I hadn't been brought here at stun gun-point. I pull my bare feet up and perch cross-legged on the chair, tucking my toes into the warm crooks of my knees to thaw them some and paying close attention as he shows me how to clean a gun, describing the process in his lilting way as he demonstrates. He speaks quietly, but his voice still fills the small kitchen space, still in that unusual high-growly timbre but steady for once, almost devoid of the usual, teasing "uhs" and "ums." I find myself glancing frequently at his unpainted face in the bluish light of the lantern, a bit more secure in the knowledge that he's focused on his task and probably won't take too much notice of me looking at him.

Sitting there in the quiet kitchen with him, I feel almost _safe_ —at least for the time being, with his attention off of me. More than that, I become aware that a strange feeling is taking root somewhere deep in my chest—not pity, never pity, but a sort of heavy sadness. Completely leaving aside the fact that this only strengthens my growing suspicion that with his return, the emotional dam I put up after our last encounter is starting to crumble (which is worrying to say the least—strong feelings of any sort are not going to be helpful in this situation), there's the fact that the source of the sadness itself is… strange.

This is the least _Joker-_ like I've ever seen him, closer to human than ever before, absorbed in the steady task, and it makes me wonder—does he ever get tired of it all? Does being the Joker, the most feared man in the city, twisted and brilliant and deranged, ever just completely exhaust him? Obsession, scheming, terrorizing—they're full-time jobs. I know he's out of his mind, or at least on a completely different level of sanity than anyone else, but even so… everyone gets tired of doing the same thing over and over and over again.

As he wipes the gun clean of excess oil, I pull myself away from that train of thought, telling myself that it will most definitely do more harm than good, that if he knew what I was thinking, he'd laugh in my face at best and take deadly offense at worst. I remind myself that if he ever got tired, he could just quit, call a halt to it and just… stop.

Even so, I can't prevent a little voice in my head from whispering, _can he really? It's a one-way road he's walking, and with his fingerprints, with those scars… stopping almost certainly means eventual capture and permanent incarceration. Is that really any better?_

A sharp click pulls me out of myself. He's reassembling the gun, which is now polished and gleaming. He looks it over, nods once in satisfaction, and then looks at me.

I raise my eyebrows, aware that my short-lived peace is officially gone and immediately on alert again. "What?"

" _You're_ awful quiet."

"I don't… really have anything to contribute." He blinks slowly, almost rolling his eyes, and I hunch my shoulders defensively. "I… like the smell of the oil," I volunteer after a short hesitation.

That gets a quick, sharp chuckle out of him, who knows why, and he reaches out and nudges my revolver closer to me. "C'mon," he says brightly. "Time to show me what you've learned."

Well. _This_ is unnerving. I look warily at him for a second before reaching for the metal rod and the brush I saw him use first. I try to ignore the fact that his eyes are fixed on my face _way_ more intently than mine ever were on his, and I repeat the process of dampening the brush and scrubbing out the barrel. I reach for the little package of cloth he'd explained were used to clean out the fouling, and then let out a little yelp as he lashes out, delivering a sharp slap to my hand.

" _No_ ," he says pointedly, reaching out and snatching up the revolver. Checking to make sure I'm watching, he clicks the cylinder open, theatrically displaying the six empty chambers. He points to the barrel, then to them. "That's the thing about _revolvers_ ," he said, taking on a sort of droning, preachy tone that I've heard a dozen times from various professors and always loathed, a tone that sounds sickly funny coming out of his mouth. " _Reliable_ … but more work. You clean the chambers juuuust like you clean the barrel—every one." He twists his wrist, holding the gun out to me.

I watch him mistrustfully for a minute, still feeling the sting of the slap, conscious of the red mark already forming on the white skin and unwilling to risk another blow, but when he shakes the revolver impatiently at me, I figure that it'll be much more dangerous to keep dithering. I swallow, then reach out and take the gun from his fingers.

I pick up the brush again and start working on each individual chamber. He watches in intent silence for a minute or two before nodding and leaning back in his chair, hands relaxed and resting on his knees, head tilted lazily back.

"So, Em," he says, just like we're comfortable pals resuming a week-old conversation, "I've gotta question for you."

"Go ahead," I say, doubly apprehensive—first at the mention of a _question,_ which could open any number of cans of worms, and second because I've finished the chambers (I think) and am reaching out for the cleaning patches again, half-anticipating another blow. He lets me take them without comment, though, lifting his hands up and lacing them together behind his head and stretching his long legs out under the table (and I'm grateful mine are pulled up underneath me, so no awkward foot bumping is in order).

"I mentioned earlier… ya know, that I half-expected to find you halfway across the _country_ by now. You know, not many people would be _gutsy_ enough to stick around this place after—" he clears his throat—"killing _two_ of Gotham's finest."

_Unbelievable._ After all he's put me through, after all the horror and trauma, he thinks killing those two waste-of-space bastards should have been the catalyst that finally drove me away. _But of course,_ I remind myself, _he's never acknowledged that our encounters were anything but little games, fun for the both of us, and he's also convinced himself that on some level, I enjoy his company. That's his whole line of reasoning behind nabbing me out of my apartment tonight, isn't it?_

Still, while he might actually believe that I have some kind of attachment to him, I'm also convinced that he fully understands that I don't on any level enjoy his twisted little games, not when my life is in the balance and _especially_ not when he brings other people into it. Blithely pretending otherwise is just part of the fun for him, but the very nature of the implied question proves that he _knows_ that any sane person would have fled the city as soon as they were able, that he's curious as to why I didn't.

_Any sane person._

It strikes me that he's been uncharacteristically silent while I wrestle through the tangle of thoughts, and without thinking, I glance up at him. He's watching me with wide eyes, lips folded together in a comically-exaggerated expression of patient curiosity. I have no intention of addressing his implications—to do so would prove that I understand the reasoning, understand that I should be gone, which will only strengthen his hypothesis that I _want_ to be here, with him. So, trying to play coolly dumb but aware that my shoulders are tense and my neck's gone rigid, I ask," So, what's your question?"

Maybe it's just the light, but those dark eyes seem to flicker. Slowly, he brings his hands out from behind his head, the chair creaking beneath him as he leans forward and rests them heavily on the table, mere inches from mine. His head lowers, jutting forward, and there's not a trace of playfulness or amusement in his face and tone as he asks, "Why are you still _here?_ "

I drop my eyes to the gun, suddenly uncomfortable with the sight of him. He's not invading my personal space, strictly speaking, but with the table in front of me, another chair backed by a wall to my right, and his body crouched at my left, I'm feeling caged. There's no way out of this room without going through him, and I'm suddenly kicking myself for choosing the chair farthest from the door, even though it had made sense at the time given my standing goal to try to keep as much distance between us as possible.

_Fat lot of good that does me now._

I clear my throat and force myself to speak, trying to keep my tone light and free of the fear and tension weighing so heavily on me right now. "If you mean _here_ as in _Gotham,_ it's because I weighed my options after that night at the warehouse and…" _Damn it, this is hard to explain to him without either making it look like I was expecting to see him or offending him_ —"and I came to the conclusion that if you wanted to see me again, it didn't matter how far I went—you would find me. In light of that, it seemed foolish to just uproot myself and run."

He's quiet, and reluctantly, I chance another look at him. I don't like what I see. A small smirk is playing at the corner of his mouth, and the skin around his eyes is creasing—the overall result is an insufferably smug expression that I immediately want to knock off his face.

_Fuck this. I'm not here to stroke his ego._

Feeling that sudden surge of anger beneath my skin, unaccustomed to it after all these months, I make a mistake. Recklessly, dropping my eyes back to the gun, I say, "Of course, if you mean why am I _here,_ like in this _room,_ it's because a freak with knives broke into my—"

He moves so fast that I'm unable to do anything but release a startled yelp before he's got my by the throat, dragging me upright as my chair capsizes and slamming me hard back against the wall. I instinctively claw at the hand pinning my throat, but in another heartbeat he's got both my wrists in his other hand, pressing them hard into my chest, where they won't exactly do me any good.

No knives this time. This time, it's just me and him, my strength against his, and I'm pitifully aware that despite all the workouts of the last year, all the informal training and the conflict scenarios I'd run through my head on nights I had trouble sleeping, my power will never, ever even come _close_ to his. I can feel the strength in his hands even as I become conscious that the fingers around my throat aren't choking me—oh, they're pressing painfully into the sides of my throat, hurting and making me feel lightheaded, but they're meant to hold, not choke.

His face fills my vision as he hunches down to my level, and even devoid of that theatrical greasepaint, it's terrifying. "Let me give you some _friendly_ advice, _Emma,_ " he bites out, lips curled back from the yellowed teeth in an animalistic snarl. "It's not _nice_ to go around calling people _names._ Especially not people who know fifteen different ways to kill you with their _bare_ hands—and that's not even gettin' into the creative stuff. And _especially_ —" here he tilts his head back, watching me through lowered eyelashes, suddenly clinical, " _especially_ not if you're something of a fuh-reeeak _yourself._ "

Any words of apology, pleading, or defense flee completely from my mind, and I'm left staring into his cold face, utterly bewildered. "I…" I start in a pitiful whisper, and swallow, feeling my throat move against his hand. "Wh—what do you—?"

The hand at my throat is suddenly withdrawn, moving up to brush some stray curls away from my face, tucking them neatly behind my ears, and his eyes are no longer on mine, either, fixed attentively on my hair instead. " _Well,_ " he drawls, his voice still venomous, warning me not to get too comfortable despite the fact that he's no longer half a second away from strangling me, "let's _think_ about it for a second."

The hair is all neatly out of my face, but he doesn't remove his hand, instead languidly stroking his way down the length of it to where it falls just above my breasts, lingering for a moment before lifting his hand and repeating the movement on the opposite side. Eyes still distant, he says, as if reciting some long-ago memorized verse, "You're _alone_ in the city. Unprotected. Unattached. _Bored._ And even after all that _fuss_ about our _time_ together earlier this year… when ya get a chance to run, you _don't._ Your _mouth_ says that you don't like this, you don't like _me_ , but…"

He clicks his tongue in false regret, and his fingers work suddenly into my hair, nails roughly scraping against the scalp and pulling a sudden shudder from me—it's purely physical; I haven't felt this sensation in years and my body doesn't exactly distinguish between friend and enemy when it comes to reacting to things I like.

He notices. His eyes drop to mine again, a flicker of… something in them, satisfaction, appreciation, I don't know, but I try to pour as much poison in my gaze as I can, to convey to him that I'm not faking, that I _do_ fear him, but more significantly, I _loathe_ him. I can see in his expression that he's not buying it.

He shifts his weight, bringing his face even closer, and finishes the thought: " _Actions_ speak louder than _words._ "

His face can't be more than an inch away from mine. He's going to kiss me, I'm sure of it, and who _knows_ what else after. A swell of panic rises in my chest, heart racing so quickly that I feel like I'm going to pass out, and I don't know what to do or how to react—

He lingers obscenely close, drinking in my panic, and I notice that his breathing is nearly as quick and erratic as mine. Then, his eyelids droop shut, and he shakes his head once, fast, as if driving away the cobwebs of a bad dream—and he releases my hands, stepping back, but not before scraping my scalp again, rougher this time, drawing goosebumps that I'm insanely glad he can't see.

"Come on," he says, voice carefree and calm once again as he turns around to pick up his chair, which had gone flying along with mine with the speed and force of his movement. " _You've_ got a job to finish; don't think I'm letting you off _that_ easy."

Well, it's good to see that he can flick that switch, whatever it was, off so easily. Me, on the other hand—I'm a mess. I consider it a miracle that I'm still standing. The scare and the following rush of relief have drained me completely, and I doubt I can step away from the wall without crumpling to the ground. Still, he's watching me expectantly and a little impatiently, and the knowledge that he might come at me again if I don't obey gives me a little burst of energy. I step forward, and when I don't immediately fall, I bend over, trembling, to pick up my chair and set it upright.

If he notices that I collapse into the chair rather than sit down with any grace, he doesn't mention it. He's pushed his own chair back a bit, and sits perfectly still, only his eyes moving, following me as I reach for the cleaning tools again. There's no way he doesn't notice that my whole body is shaking, that my hands are trembling so badly that I'm not sure if I can even finish, but he doesn't comment on it.

He doesn't say anything, actually. For the next few minutes, he just observes in total, eerie silence as I go through the process of cleaning the gun—badly, I'm sure, given that my hands are unsteady and that I've never actually done it before, but he neither criticizes nor lashes out at me again.

Finally, the gun is oiled and polished, and I set it down, feeling shakier than ever and completely exhausted besides. This night has put me through the wringer—between the abduction, the cop chase, the murder, and the disturbing assault, I have almost no energy left. I'm tempted to just put my head down on the table and pass out right here, but to do so would be to invite trouble.

I scrape up the last tatters of bravery I still have—and I need them, too, considering that I would happily never speak to or look at him again after what just happened—and raise my head. He's watching me with that same unnerving stillness, and I draw a shaky breath in through my nose before opening my mouth and saying in a whispering exhale, "I'm very tired."

He lifts his eyebrows just a fraction, tilts his head a little, as if to say _okay, and?_

I cross one arm protectively across my stomach and lift my hand to my temple, feeling extremely exposed, but I push forward, seeing little other choice. "May I… may I please sleep?"

He keeps staring for a moment, pursing his lips, tongue running along the inside seams as he studies me. For a horrible moment, I think he's going to refuse, that he wants to deny me basic human needs just to watch how long it'll take me to break totally down, and in my current state, the thought terrifies me.

Finally, though, he responds. "Of course." His tone is flat, disinterested, and if he were anyone else, I would think he was… angry at me. But this is the Joker, and the Joker doesn't exactly get angry. Oh, he lashes out whenever I cross a line, but I never get the impression that he's genuinely infuriated or emotionally rankled in any way by my actions, not even with this latest incident—I think it's more a way to scare me into becoming more compliant.

He tilts his head towards the door. "Last door on the left. _Just_ sleep, you understand? Don't get _clever._ "

I nod. "I just want to sleep, I swear," I say, too relieved at his consent to even think about trying to make trouble. I stand, and when he follows suit, I feel another weary bolt of fear— _he doesn't—he's not coming with me, is he?_

But no, he just turns to keep an eye on me as I edge around him, hugging close to the wall and making my way towards the door. He does nothing and makes no move to follow, just continuing to watch me until I finally duck out of the room and into the hallway.

I don't pause to savor the fact that for the first time in hours, I'm in a separate room from him. I'm too worried that he'll change his mind if I linger, so I go straight down the hall of closed doors to the last one on the left. When I open it, I'm surprised to see light filtering in through a single window—the time has flown by and the windowless kitchen and hallway kept me from realizing that it's morning.

Additionally surprising is the fact that this is actually a fully-furnished bedroom. Well, fully-furnished might be a little generous, considering that there's only an empty desk, a double bed, and a dresser, but considering the bareness of the warehouse, which is the only Joker hideout I have for reference… the bed is neatly made, too, and given the general neatness of the room I feel like it must be seldom-used. This is comforting.

I told him the truth when I said I only wanted to sleep. I discard the smoky hoodie as I cross the room and collapse face-first on the bed the second I'm close enough. The weariness slams into me, and I barely have time to work my way beneath the blankets before my eyes fall shut and sleep sucks me in.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a quick note to say thank you to everyone who's left kudos and boosted the view count over the last couple of weeks. It can be tough out there for original characters, so thanks for giving this one a chance. :)
> 
> Expect an update around the beginning of next week!


	6. Chapter 6

Even before I really wake up, I'm aware that something has gone horribly wrong.

It's only a split second awareness before I come fully to consciousness, triggered perhaps by the fact that the room smells foreign, or that the bed feels strange or that I can hear _someone else_ breathing, so I don't exactly have time to prepare myself for anything before I open my eyes and see that I am not alone in the bed.

My purely instinctive reaction is to scream bloody murder, bring my hands up, and shove his chest as hard as I can. Unfortunately, since he's on the side of the bed pressed against the wall, this has the rather humiliating effect of pushing _me_ off the bed instead of _him._ I land with a hard thump on my hip, the deep ache upon contact serving to remind me that I'd fallen out of my own bed on exactly the same spot last night, after he'd pistol-whipped me with my own gun.

As if it has been waiting for the reminder, a splitting headache kicks in at my temple. This only serves to blacken my already foul mood, and I sit straight up to glare at the crooked bastard who happens to be responsible (directly and indirectly) for all my aches, pains, and annoyances.

He looks completely undisturbed, as if he's _used_ to waking up to screams and attacks. Indeed, he's merely cracked one lazy eye open to see what all the fuss is about, and as my head surfaces above the line of the mattress, he has the gall to smirk and release a sleepy snort-laugh into his pillow at my predicament. The asshole.

"What the _hell,_ " I say, my voice a little too hoarse from sleep to quite reach the yell I'm aiming for, "you figure that since I'm _here,_ we might as well go back to day one, sleeping in the same bed?"

He opens the other eye just so he can roll them both at me, and then, his voice rougher and deeper than I'm accustomed to, he says, "Oh, _shut up,_ " and rolls over towards the wall.

I was winding up for a bitch-out, but his barefaced audacity chokes the words in my throat. I struggle to my feet, aware that my fists are clenched so tightly that the blood has left my fingers, and for a second I just stare speechlessly at his turned back. A blind, wrathful idea flashes into my mind, and I'm two seconds away from just pouncing on him, taking advantage of his lowered guard to just start whaling on that smug face of his, but before I can move, sanity kicks in. If I did that, it would be all too easy for him to just shift his hips, throwing me off-balance on the already unstable mattress, and from there, he could just flip me over and pin me—

_Oh._

_**Oh.**_

_**Fuck.**_

The vivid mental image strikes a chord of memory that I've been a little too preoccupied to think about in the moments since my waking, and I feel my eyes growing huge as I realize that being on a bed with him, duking it out or not, is the _last_ situation I want to be in right now. Not with the sudden remembrance that he'd featured prominently in some of last night's dreams in a decidedly _not_ antagonistic setting.

"It's too early for this shit," I growl instead, and I mean it—I'm way too groggy to deal with _any_ of the things running haywire in my mind at the moment. Even so, still a little too sleepy to be as cautious as I should, I can't resist snatching up my pillow and winging it at his back, needing _some_ outlet for my horrified frustration. Fortunately, he doesn't react, giving me the opportunity to wheel around and escape through the second door in the room, which I correctly surmise leads to a bathroom.

Fortunately, the lock seems steady enough, and I flick it gratefully. Finally isolated for a moment, I press myself backwards against the door and close my eyes tightly.

_No. No, no, no, no,_ _**no** _ _. Sex dreams don't mean jack shit. They certainly don't mean that I_ _**want** _ _him. No._

I breathe steadily for a moment, in through my nose and out through my mouth, and when the emotional turmoil has died down to a dull roar, I turn my efforts hesitantly towards untangling the mess that is my mind right now.

_I've been dreaming about him most nights for a while now. It's really inevitable, especially considering my lack of any sort of sexual outlet for at least a year, that one of_ _**those** _ _would eventually happen—doubly so considering the ideas he planted last night. It's only my subconscious mind picking up on undercurrents and incorporating them into the usual set of dreams._

I'm calming down just a bit when another terrible thought strikes me: _who knows how long he was in that bed with me? Who knows if I did anything in my sleep?_ Of course I'd know if anything significant happened—not even _I_ could sleep through that—but even the thought of cozying up to him makes me want to bash my head backwards into the door (I refrain, of course, hyper-aware that any unusual noises might rouse him into coming to investigate, and I _don't_ want that).

_That's another thing,_ I think ferociously, opening my eyes. _Nine months and I can't sleep through the night for fear that he might come prowling around—then suddenly, he comes crawling right into bed with me and I don't even_ _ **notice?**_

I can't sift through the implications of that right now. Instead, I push away from the door, going to examine the contents of the little bathroom to see what I have to work with. Fortunately, there's a window in the bathroom—the glass is opaque, but there's enough light to get a good look at my surroundings, though it's weak, blue-tinted, clearly coming from a streetlamp outside rather than the sun— _how long was I asleep?_

The mirror catches my eye—not so much the mirror as what I see in it. I'm a mess. My hair is tumbling everywhere, red curls sticking out in all directions, but more eye-catching is the mottled, ugly bruise spreading out painfully from my temple. That's not the only mark on me, either—no, my neck's a battlefield, dotted with faint smudges of blue-purple—right at the front of the throat, where he grabbed me in the car, and then separate, more defined fingerprints from the latest attack last night. I wince as I look all the marks over, remind myself that after so many hours spent alone in the Joker's company, I'm lucky to get out with just these so far. Still, they won't be the last.

I find toothpaste and a toothbrush in the drawer beneath the sink. I don't trust the toothbrush for a second, but after giving the toothpaste a quick, suspicious examination (you can't be too careful), I deem it probably safe and use my finger to scrub my teeth and tongue the best I can. The water runs, and I figure the housing development must be on a well system rather than an electronic pump—not surprising, considering the amount of blackouts the Narrows suffers regularly.

I feel a little more human now, but I need a shower. My feet are filthy from wandering around barefooted all of last night, not to mention the fact that I stink of fear. A shower will make me feel more like myself. Still, I have no desire to loiter around while he goes Norman Bates on me, so I resolve to be quick about it, and I'm on high alert as I undress, ready to jump for a towel at the slightest suspicious scratching.

I forget that no electricity means no hot water until the water comes creaking ominously through the pipes, and I actually debate with myself for a minute as I watch the icy spray. Is cleanliness worth potential hypothermia? I'm already undressed, though, and I clench my teeth, telling myself to suck it up before taking a deep breath and stepping beneath the frigid water.

I have to bite back a yelp at the shock of the cold—I certainly don't want him barging in on me _now._ Still, it feels like being repeatedly punched in the chest, and I scramble quickly for the bar of soap—Ivory, looks fairly new, but I don't have time to wonder about the placement of toiletries in the Joker's hideouts; it's too damn _cold._ I lather up and take the quickest shower of my life, fueled equally by the freezing water and the prospect that he might break the door down just for a lark.

As soon as my body's clean, I duck out and wrap a towel tightly around myself, then gingerly sit down on the edge of the tub to take care of my feet, which are still blackened by the time spent on the asphalt. About the only benefit of the temperature of the water is that I'm feeling much more awake and much more suited to deal with certain unwelcome realities, and so as I scrub my feet, I think.

I will no longer allow myself to avoid dealing with the facts. First—the Joker's re-emergence in my life seems to have kickstarted my emotional state. After nine months of maintaining a comfortable neutrality, I ran a pretty thorough gauntlet last night—fear, sadness, anger, horror—and all of them intense, none of them the muted shadows of themselves to which I've become accustomed. Somehow, he has the ability to draw out potent emotions that life in the real world has completely failed to produce. I guess I shouldn't be surprised—each encounter with him is so intense, so visceral, that everyday life pales in comparison. When I'm with him, everything is immediate, threatening—feels _real._ Day-to-day life can't compare; it's like watching someone else through a TV screen, safely detached.

And while over the past few months I've become accustomed to that detachment, comfortable, even, with the ease of it all… there's part of me that's whispering something else, that I wasn't _alive,_ not really. His reappearance has opened up those lines again, reconnecting me to my existence, showing me that I _value_ my life again. It's frustrating because dealing with him would be so much _easier_ if I genuinely didn't care.

_But,_ my mind whispers, _is your safe life really worth it if you don't give a damn?_

Easier, certainly. Worthwhile… I'll have to come back to that one.

Second: I didn't wake up when he got into bed with me. Taking into consideration my hyper-alertness of the past few months, my inability to get through the night without waking up a dozen times to make sure all was well… it strongly implies that rather than waking to make sure he _wasn't_ there, I was checking to see if he _was,_ at least subconsciously, and subconscious or not, the implications are… troubling.

I turn off the water, lift my feet out of the tub, and move over to the toilet, perching on the closed lid and shutting my eyes with a slow exhale.

Third. The Joker has convinced himself that I have an attachment to him, and given the nature of his address last night, he believes that it's at least in part sexual. This wouldn't be quite so unsettling if not for my awareness of the first realities, in addition to the fact that I'm beginning to pick up on the same behavior from _him_ that he claims to have observed in _me._

Oh, last time there was tension, certainly, but it was always underscored with the understanding that it was all a game, that he was merely pushing buttons to see how I'd react. Now, though I'm certain we're still playing that same game, I'm getting the uncomfortable feeling that we've advanced to an entirely new level. Last time, he made it very clear what he was angling for. This time, I have no idea what his endgame might be.

At the start of it all last night, I believed that he was abducting me because I had a part to play in some Gotham-centered scheme of his. Now, I'm not so sure. While I'm certain he has a plan that extends far beyond whatever he's doing on a personal level with me… I'm starting to think he picked me up as a side project, out of idle curiosity, maybe. Someone who formed an attachment to him intentionally, I feel sure, would very promptly be introduced to the business end of his knife, but someone who, from his perspective, became attached reluctantly and by _accident_ … well, that might be worth exploring.

I open my eyes, feeling goosebumps spread over my skin, and this time I don't bother trying to blame the cold. It freaks me out, trying to think from his point of view, but what chills me even more is that in light of the evidence I've just examined, I can no longer deny that he is, at least in part, correct. I _am_ attached to him in some way.

Oh, I don't believe it's out of some repressed desire to endanger myself and go hunting for thrills like _he_ keeps implying—it's it's much more likely survivor bonding, me instinctively trying to get close to him as a means of protecting myself. Even so, the nature of the attachment doesn't matter much, because the fact remains that it happened without my being aware of it or consenting to it. The fact that I'm only really becoming aware of it now is terrifying. It tells me that maybe I don't have as much control over myself as I thought I did, and not being in control of oneself around the Joker is a very dangerous position to be in.

_I already gave into foolish impulse once, last night. What happens if it starts happening more frequently, and in more areas than just my temper?_

I stop myself before I go too far down that train of thought, because I'm not super-human and there are still some ideas I can't bring myself to deal with.

My teeth are chattering, and this time, it _is_ because of the cold. I need to get dressed.

I wrinkle my nose at the thought of putting on last night's clothes again, but I don't have much of a choice—it's either the tank top and gym pants or waltzing around in a towel all day, and I'm certainly not doing _that._ Moving quickly, I pull on my clothes again, allowing myself a moment of wistful remembrance of my full closet at home, full of much warmer and much better-suited attire.

No sooner do I finish than something hits the door, making me jump. It sounds like _someone_ striking the door repeatedly with an open hand, and as I glare at it, his voice drifts into the bathroom, muffled through the wood but still unnervingly close. "Time's _up,_ Em. Don't be a _bathroom hog._ "

For a split second, I toy with the idea of refusing to come out, of making him break in to come get me, but I dismiss it for the sullen impulse it is—I can't imagine he'd be too happy with the act of rebellion, and remembering that I've already hit him with a pillow this morning, I figure I'd better make up for it by being submissive for now. Still, I can't quite hide my annoyance as I snap the lock back and yank the door open, glaring up at him.

He's leaning against the doorframe on his elbow, obviously just out of bed, face still devoid of paint. He's divested himself of the bloody waistcoat and his dress shirt is unbuttoned and hanging open over a white t-shirt beneath. He's wearing suit pants, unbelted and blood-free—it was too dark last night to take much note of color, but the fact that they're clean probably means that he changed before coming to bed. As I take in the sight, I feel my shoulders loosen in relief—first that he appears to be perfectly comfortable sleeping mostly-dressed, _thank God,_ and second that he didn't bring someone else's blood into the bed I occupied last night.

"Like what you see?" he asks coquettishly, and my eyes snap back up to his, glaring again, itching to tell him to _cut that shit out._ Fortunately he moves right along, jerking his head to the side to indicate the bedroom. "C'mon. _Out._ " I duck under his arm to escape into the bedroom, and as I pass, he taps my backside with his spare hand, making me jump and yelp—fortunately, the gesture isn't so much a _hey-good-lookin'_ as a _come-on-move-hurry-up._ I wheel around as soon as I'm a safe distance away, intending to glare daggers at him, maybe yell a little bit, but it's too late—I just catch sight of the edge of the door as it closes, hear him chuckling to himself as the lock clicks into place.

_Right,_ I think derisively, _like he's in any danger of_ _ **me**_ _walking in on_ _ **him**_ _._

As I hear the pipes creak again, followed rapidly by the sound of running water, I realize something. He's locked in the bathroom, probably going to be at least a few minutes in there… and I'm out here, alone and unwatched.

Of course I'm not going to run. We're in the middle of the Narrows, the most dangerous part of the city on a _good_ day, and I have no doubt that he's way more familiar with it than I am. With me on foot, he'll certainly catch up to me before I get too far. Even if by some miracle I manage to escape the neighborhood, he's proved before that he's very capable of making Gotham itself a cage. No, flight is not an option.

However, I can definitely get a better look at my surroundings, maybe scope out some potential weapons for if things get dangerous—and inevitably, with him, they will. Heartened at the thought that I might actually be able to start constructing some sort of defense, I go to the door and open it carefully, mindful of any creaks that may draw his attention.

I get approximately a step and a half into the hallway before I see what's at the end of it, standing by the front door. The hallway has no windows, ergo no real light, but enough natural light is filtering in from the room I'm trying to leave for me to make out the person standing there, silent and unmoving and clown-masked. Some part of me flashes back to the last time I saw that unsettling sight, back at the warehouse, where I narrowly avoided being raped, and before I quite know what I'm doing, I'm stepping hastily back into the bedroom, slamming the door and locking it tight.

I wait for a second for repercussions, for the minion to come banging on my door or for sounds of the water stream in the bathroom to abruptly cease. When neither warning sign comes, I release a slow breath and shake my head.

Well. That explains why he wasn't afraid to leave me unattended, at least.

Now that leaving the room is out, my options are limited. I could go to the window, see if I can't get a better grasp of my bearings, but it's pointless, really. I can tell by the sickly blue light that it's probably well after dark outside, and it's not as though I'll be able to leave here unless he wants me to. My eyes fall instead on the bed, on the crumpled heap of blankets atop it, and some instinct propels me forward. I hesitate just a moment at the recollection that _he_ was in this same bed uncomfortably recently, but I push it aside and climb onto the mattress, curl into a ball, and cover myself completely with the blanket, blocking out every last pinpoint of light.

It goes straight back to childhood. Whatever's under the blanket, the monsters under the bed can't touch. It's silly, of course, but I can't help but feel safer.

And tired. Unbelievably tired, considering that I slept through the hours from early morning all the way into the evening. Still, if anything's exhausting, an insurmountable situation is at the top of the list. Maybe that weariness is to blame for the tears suddenly welling up in my eyes, and I don't try to fight them. The urge to cry is something that tends to build up the longer you put it off, and I don't want to break down in front of _him,_ not like this. Who knows what he'll do? Additionally, I can't help but feel a little relieved. I haven't cried in months. It's a bit reassuring to know that I still _can,_ that I'm still able to indulge in this temporary unburdening of emotional turmoil.

I allow myself a few minutes of those deep, chest-wracking sobs before I hear the water shutting off, and just like that, I stop. My highest priority right now is to listen as hard as I can, and I hear him clunking around in the bathroom for a bit, and then the door swings open.

I don't dare to re-emerge. I just listen to his footsteps going back and forth, the sound of drawers opening and shutting, the rustle of fabric. After a minute or two of this, the footsteps get close, and I bite my lip as I feel the mattress sinking beneath his weight. He's sitting on the edge, from the feel of it, close to where my feet are curled up but thankfully not shifting any closer.

There's a moment of horrible stillness, and then—"Em?" I don't respond. There hasn't been enough time since I stopped crying; he'll see the evidence of it, the tear tracks, the redness around my eyes and nose. I don't _want_ him to see, to be able to file my weakness away for further reference.

The mattress creaks, and then he's poking the blanket and my feet beneath it. "Come on, Em. Naptime's over."

_No._ I hold my breath and stay perfectly still, thinking that maybe if I just play dead, he'll get bored, leave the room to deal with his minions and leave me alone.

His tone changes, dropping a little. "Unless, of course, you're hoping I'll come under there _with_ you?"

Oh, to hell with that. Suddenly, the prospect of being seen directly after a good cry doesn't seem so bad, and I struggle my way out of the blankets, sitting upright and glaring at him.

The paint's back on, and he's dressed for the evening, a fresh green waistcoat over a lavender dress shirt rolled up to the elbows. He scans me quickly, doubtless taking in my rumpled and rather soggy appearance before appearing to dismiss it, clicking his tongue and standing. "I got you something," he says, bending over and pulling out a huge paper bag from under the bed. He tosses it next to me, and I instinctively flinch back—his last idea of a gift was to put me in charge of the fate of ten people, so I'm a little wary of accepting things from him. When I look up at him, though, he's giving me a level stare, looking a bit put out, so I swallow back my apprehension and gingerly open up the bag.

I'm a little confused when, instead of the severed head I half expect, I pull out a pair of jeans, a long-sleeved shirt, and, from the bottom, a pair of heavy black boots with no heel. I blink at the clothing for a second before lifting my eyes to him, and, on cue, he shrugs.

"Well, since we're going to be moving shortly…" He bounces on the balls of his feet and gives me a conspiratorial look. "Bare feet and pajamas are a _liiittle_ conspicuous in the dead of winter, Em."

"We're going to be doing something that requires subtlety?" I ask, unable to keep myself from lowering my chin and looking pointedly at his face and the lurid makeup he wears.

He chuckles and doesn't respond to that, instead just telling me, "Get dressed, Em. Mumbles went out and got 'em for you; you'll hurt his _feelings_ if you turn 'em down."

_Who the hell is Mumbles?_ I think for a moment before realizing that he must have sent a henchman out for these sometime during the day. Well, if he's supplying me with attire that will be better-suited for the cold, I'm not going to complain. I get up from the bed, gathering the clothes and moving pointedly past him towards the bathroom again, because I am _not_ changing in front of him.

Once safely locked away in the bathroom again, I discover that the clothes are all in my exact sizes. Since the thought of him checking me for labels while I slept is a profoundly disturbing one, I tell myself that he must have a talent for sizing people and strip off my pajamas. I have another moment of discomfort when I grasp the fact that the shirt is green—he seems to be partial to that color on me, but since it's a decided improvement on my sleeveless tank top, I elect to wear it anyway. The boots are a little big, but I figure that's probably a calculated measure—it'll keep me from running too fast. Regardless, I'm profoundly relieved to have something on my feet.

I don't dawdle in the bathroom. I bunch my old clothes into a ball and shove them beneath the sink before re-emerging. He's still standing where I left him, and gives me a quick once-over before nodding in approval. "Good. Let's go. _Time's_ a'wasting."

Without another glance in my direction, he goes to the door, flinging it open and exiting into the hall. I toy with the idea of refusing to follow, but deciding that it'll be better to go of my own arguably-free will than to force him to come back and drag me along, I get out of bed and pursue.

I catch the edge of his silhouette at the end of the hall, ducking into the kitchen. The clown is no longer looming, so I proceed hesitantly along, following him to the kitchen. I stop in the doorway when I see several other newcomers, some masked, some not. There are four in all, grouped around the table, and since I have no intention of entering a room full of strange men, I linger in the doorway, figuring that as long as I'm in his sight, he can't say that I didn't obey.

He doesn't appear to greet any of them, standing just inside the door and observing. This leaves me subject to stares from the men, ranging from bold to curious to outright hostile, and I shift uncomfortably, remembering well my numerous encounters with Joker henchmen. I'd forgotten that on the scale of things that are nerve-wracking, dealing with the Joker _and_ his men is somehow almost worse than dealing with the Joker alone.

He speaks, drawing their attention away from me. "Well, fellas, whaddya say?" he asks in a genial tone I've never heard before. I interpret it as a warning sign—just what the warning is and who it's meant for, I have no idea, but I've learned that when the Joker sounds overly friendly, I'd better watch my step.

One of the masked men answers. "Everything's in order, boss. Targets in sight, vehicles acquired, cops don't suspect a thing."

"Good, good," the Joker says, sounding genuinely pleased, which only serves to bring my guard up even more. If things are going well for him, they certainly aren't gonna be okay for Gotham, or for me. "Get ready to move. Keep your eyes and ears _open_."

One of the braver henchmen speaks up, jerking his head towards me. "And her?"

In unison, the rest of them glance my way, and then we all look back at the Joker, unified in our curiosity as to my involvement in this. He's looking directly at me as if he hasn't even noticed the unspoken question in the air, and for half a second, his eyes crinkle in amusement at some private thought. Then, he brings the cup down and says casually, "Yeah, her too. Are we ready?"

Amid the chorus of agreements, he takes my elbow, and I swallow hard as I look up at him, realizing that whatever scheme he had in mind, whatever plot he abducted me for, it starts tonight.

There's no waiting around once the men are up from their seats at the table—he steps out of the kitchen again, pulling me with him as we leave the apartment to the dusk-lit hallway beyond. I expect him to retrace the steps that led us here, but he turns, taking us to another staircase in the back of the building.

The stairwell is pitch black, and once the last henchman lets the door fall shut behind us, we're left in complete darkness. Hardly comfortable with the idea of being alone in the dark with four strangers, I find myself grasping for his shoulder again, the way I did in the alley last night, and once I find it, he lets go of my elbow, trusting the dark and the fear to keep me close.

He doesn't seem to have any problem with the blackness, moving fast down the stairs quite as though he can see perfectly, and I have to hurry to make sure he doesn't get more than two stairs ahead of me—any lower, and I'll lose my grip. I stumble once or twice, using his shoulder to keep my balance, and each time he chuckles low. I scowl in the dark, but console myself with the thought that the henchmen are having an equally difficult time, judging by the muffled cursing and clattering behind me.

Finally, we reach the bottom and he blows through the door. I can suddenly see again—we're in a small underground parking garage, devoid of electricity like the rest of the building, but the opening allows for some faint street-light to illuminate the place. I let go of his shoulder immediately but keep up the pace, following him towards the two vehicles parked near the entrance, a car and a windowless van. The henchmen behind us split up, two going for the car and two circling around the front of the van, and the Joker throws the door of the latter open, turning to grab my arm again, propelling me into the back. I don't resist other than shooting him a black look, climbing in and finding a seat on one of the benches lining the back. He follows, pulling the doors shut as the engine starts, and once again, we're cast in darkness.

There's a full barrier between us and the henchmen up front, and I'm a little surprised to find that I'm a modicum more comfortable alone with him than in their company, even in the dark. I hear him release a sigh as he takes a seat opposite me, and then it's quiet aside from the rumbling of the engine.

Since it won't make much of a difference, I close my eyes and tilt my head back against the side. It's hard to try to prepare myself for what's coming, since I don't have the slightest idea of where he's taking me or what he has planned, but I do my best, attempting to level out my breathing and relax my shoulders.

Of course, it's hard for me to relax with him humming absently in the dark just a foot or two away from me. I open my eyes again, glaring into the blackness as if he'll sense it and maybe shut up, but he only graduates to light singing—" _He sees you when you're sleepin'… he knows when you're awake—"_

_Okay, enough of_ _ **that**_ _bullshit._ "You know, I never pegged you for a Christmassy kind of guy," I comment, if only to make him quit with the creepy rendition of holiday tunes.

It works, though I'm not entirely sure that it's worth the trade-off of conversing with him instead. "Oh, yeah?" he answers gamely. "Why _not?_ "

"Well, you know," I say. "All the happy music, the festive décor, God rest ye, merry gentlemen—seems kind of the antithesis of what you're about."

There's a second of silence, then he looses a soft laugh, which doesn't help the growing feeling of foreboding in my gut. "What, _exactly,_ do you think I'm _about,_ Em?"

_Shit._ I backpedal a little. "Well, I mean… not that I _know,_ exactly, but it seems like… chaos, destruction, panicked people en masse, things like that are a little more your bag."

"What, chaos and panic don't sound like perfect descriptors of the Christmas season to _you_?"

I'm silent, figuring I'd better stop digging while I can, and I hear him shifting in his seat. After a moment, he speaks again, his voice much closer now. "I'm a _giver,_ Em, and Christmas… well, it provides _ample_ opportunity for little… _gestures,_ you know, to reconnect with old friends. Like _you._ "

This conversation is definitely taking an undesirable turn. I don't want to talk about _him_ and _me_ and what all of this means. I'm just now coming to terms with the fact that my own brain might be hiding things from me; the last thing I need is him sifting through everything I say and emerging with some skewed version of my own words designed to prove to me that I'm secretly evil and madly in love with him.

So, I quickly play the trump card, the one that always seems to divert his attention, if only for a moment. "And Batman?"

I hear him suck a breath in through his teeth. "What _about_ Batman?"

"Well," I say, choosing my words very carefully in response to the challenge in his voice— _come on, say something stupid, I_ _ **dare**_ _you—_ "I just… it seems weird to me. You know, that you'd think about giving _me_ a gift but not him. You've known _him_ longer, after all, and… well, isn't that something that arch-nemeses do? Give each other inappropriate, passive-aggressive gifts on birthdays and Christmas?"

"Oh, there's nothing _passive-aggressive_ about it, sweetie," he assures me, but he sounds cheered, and he apparently can't pass up the opportunity to talk about Batman, especially not to someone who recognizes their status as nemeses, because he goes on: "But you're right. He _does_ deserve somethin', huh? If only because he's the only _effective_ law enforcement in this place. Keeps the job from getting _boring_ —yeah, a guy like _that_ is priceless. However, it's not as if he's got, uh, a _forwarding_ address. And with the _cops_ all over him these days, as funny as it is to see him cast down from that _pedestal_ they all had him on, it's not as if I can just drop off a _treat_ at the nearest police station." He heaves a regretful sigh. "You see my predicament."

"Yeah," I say, and I try to slow my heartbeat, to make my voice as casual as possible before I ask the next question. "So what are you going to do?"

He's silent, and despite my efforts to stay calm, I feel my pulse quickening. I'm not trying to put one over on him, not exactly, but I am trying to get a bead on his plans, trying to figure out where I fit in, and past experience tells me that he doesn't take too kindly to prying. If he suspects that I'm trying to trick him into giving something up…

"Well," he says finally, "that's the _question,_ isn't it? What do you give a guy who thinks he owns the whole _city?_ " He pauses again, then, sounding knowing, pleased with himself, he answers his own question. "You _fix_ something in the city. Do something he _can't_ do, and do it in a way he can't _ignore._ Let me ask you something, kid—does the name _Falcone_ ring any bells?"

My brow furrows. "Like, Carmine Falcone?" He clicks his tongue in the affirmative. "Well, yeah—he was kind of like head mobster a couple of years ago, ran a big chunk of organized crime in the city, but I heard he went crazy. Isn't he in Arkham?"

"Yess," the Joker hisses, sounding pleased. "Yes, he is, and take it from me—he's loonier 'n a bowl of _fruit loops._ His _son,_ however… well, _he's_ loony, too, but he's decidedly no- _t_ … in Arkham."

_That explains a whole lot of nothing._ I frown confusedly into the dark, wondering what the hell ties Batman, the Falcones, and Christmas together—and additionally and even more perplexing, what _I_ have to do with any of them, but I've already gotten away with several questions thus far, and I'm getting the sense that I might not want to push my luck. I fall silent, crossing my arms and leaning back against the van again. He takes it upon himself to once again fill the silence with his humming, and I just shake my head.

_Well, that lasted all of five minutes._

Time passes—an inordinately long time, actually, and I find myself wishing for windows so I can get a sense of where we're headed, but I guess that would defeat the purpose of the van. The Joker, fortunately, does not take it upon himself to make conversation, and he keeps his distance, so I guess there's that.

Just when I'm starting to wonder if we're actually leaving the city, the van rolls to a stop, and I hear him standing, though I don't follow suit. After a few more moments, the back doors open, and the Joker, hunched over to accommodate the low roof, swings around and peers abruptly into my eyes.

"Ready to _play?_ "


	7. Chapter 7

_Ready to play?_

No, I am decidedly _not_ ready for whatever he plans to throw at me, but as the question's obviously rhetorical and since I obviously don't have a choice, I get up, shooting him a dirty look as I slip past him and jump out of the van.

We're in a residential area, some distance from the hub of the city—I can see the skyline in the background, not too far away but definitely not close. The van is parked under a conveniently-shattered streetlamp, and as my eyes adjust to the dim light provided by the city sky, I see the other car prowling past—patrolling to make sure the coast stays clear, I guess.

Another second and the Joker lands on the pavement beside me, taking a quick look around before jerking his head in command and stepping onto the sidewalk, heading straight for one of a line of identical brownstones populating the street. The henchmen follow immediately, but I linger, that feeling of foreboding in my stomach evolving to outright dread. _That's someone's house._ Of course I'm feeling relieved that we're not breaking into a bank or blowing up a building with a hundred people in it— _not yet, anyway_ —but somehow, this residential setting almost seems worse.

I'm not left to drag my feet for long. The Joker glances over his shoulder, sees that I'm not part of his entourage, and stops and turns as his men continue past him, giving me a look that clearly tells me that if I don't keep up, then I'll live to regret it. Reluctantly, I move forward, heading slowly towards the house, and as I move to go past him, his hand comes down hard on my wrist, halting me abruptly.

I look up, startled, and he ducks down, cheek practically flush against mine as he hisses into my ear: "You need to _behave._ No dragging your feet, no _heroics_. Believe it or not, I don't wanna spill any more of your blood tonight than I _have_ to."

He draws back, and I stare uncomprehendingly into his face. _What the hell does that mean?_ He doesn't oblige my unspoken bemusement, just pulls a _got it?_ expression before he throws my wrist down and steps away. Given the implication of what he just said—that I'm shedding blood tonight—it takes all of my strength to follow him, but since he's made it pretty clear that standing around will invite violence, I reluctantly go along.

I follow slowly to the stairs, where his men have already started to work on the locked front door. I wait, halfway up from the street and keeping as much distance as I feel I can get away with. I look around, wondering at the fact that none of them seems concerned by the prospect of being seen, but it was well after dark when we left, and we've been driving for an hour, maybe two—all the nine-to-fives are probably in bed by now, and the broken streetlamp gives them some shadow under which to work.

I look up at the house we're apparently breaking into. The windows are all dark, and I swallow hard. _People are asleep in there._ I slowly lift a hand to cover my mouth, afraid that a horrified whimper might make its way past my throat and certain that it wouldn't be well-received.

The lock clicks. The henchman who picked it stands and twists the knob, quietly pushing the door open, and then looks back at the Joker. At a nod from him, the masks go on, and I try to find comfort in that, thinking _if they're hiding their faces, maybe they're not planning to kill._

The henchmen go inside, and the Joker glances back at me, flicking an impatient hand in a command to follow as he crosses the threshold. I swallow again, and then climb the rest of the stairs and enter the house.

It's quiet inside, save for the muffled footsteps of the guys as they check out the rooms. The Joker has stopped in the entryway, and I stand behind him—hiding a bit, to tell the truth, using his broad shoulders to obscure my view. I don't want to see inside this stranger's home, don't want to be a part of this invasion, whatever it is.

We wait there until the henchmen come back, and at some unspoken signal, they head up the staircase to the left, proceeding almost silently. After a beat, the Joker follows, and, hesitantly, I go after him.

We emerge in a stunted hallway. The henchmen have disappeared again, but a cracked doorway to the left marks where they've gone. The Joker pauses outside the door, waiting for something. After a moment, I hear the chilling sound of a shotgun cocking, followed almost immediately by a frightened gasp. The Joker looks over his shoulder at me and gives me a faint grin.

"Showtime," he says softly, and then pushes the door open and enters the room.

Despite his previous orders, I _do_ drag my feet, reluctantly proceeding to the doorway and just peeking around the frame. I'm looking into the bedroom. The henchmen stand at the foot of a double bed, training their gun on its sole occupant—a man, young, clearly just roused from sleep, pushed up against the headboard in an attempt to get as far away from the guns as possible. His eyes, though, are fixed on the Joker, who stands just inside of the door, perfectly still, shoulders hunched as he takes in the scene. The room remains fixed in a grim tableau for a few seconds, and then, voice low, the Joker says, "Good evening."

The man's face is still frozen in horror, but the greeting loosens his tongue. "Pl—please—what do you—what do you _want_?"

The Joker cocks his head, but before he can answer, a soft sound cuts him off, and he cocks his head sharply. At the same time the man's eyes dart to the corner of the room, I place the noise, and my eyes go wide. _There's a baby in here,_ I realize, and I step fully into the room, following the man's eyes to the crib nestled in the corner.

The Joker's already moving towards it, and the man is sputtering in terror: "No—no, please, leave her—leave her alone, _stop!_ " It's all I can do not to join in.

The Joker takes no notice. He approaches the crib and peers into it for a moment, listening along with all of us to the fussing of the restless child. Then, with a brief glance at the man on the bed, he reaches down and lifts a small, blanket-wrapped bundle out. "Well, _hello,_ angel," he says softly as he settles the baby into his arms, and underneath the horror of the moment, the sight of the innocent baby in the grip of the most dangerous man in the city, I realize something.

_He's done this before._ The way he shifts his elbow to support the baby's head, the aimless bouncing of his arms to distract the child from her fussing—it's not something people who have never been around babies (or are even uncomfortable around them) know to do, and I'm frozen to the spot, forehead furrowed, unsure of what to make of it.

I'm not the only one. The others in the room are staring, speechless, as he rocks her, shifting from one foot to the other and regarding her with an expression of faint curiosity. "Aww," he croons, still addressing her rather than her father, "you're a pretty li'l thing. Where's _mommy,_ huh?"

This seems to jolt the man out of his shock. "My wife's dead," he says hesitantly, eyes still fixed on the pair. "Eclampsia. Could you please j—just put her down."

I glance at him, and then impulsively cross the room to where the Joker's standing, putting my hand on the crook of his elbow and looking down at the baby. She's a beautiful child, no older than six months, dark-skinned and tiny, and her big brown eyes are fixed on the painted face above her, her little mouth puckering in bemusement— _you're not my daddy,_ her face seems to say, but the bright colors and soothing movement keeps her from crying for now. I look up at the Joker to find him staring at me, the corner of his mouth turned mockingly up, but to my relief, he shifts, holding the bundle out to me. I take her gratefully, whispering soothingly to her, and as soon as I have her, the Joker turns away, taking a few steps toward the bed.

"Eclampsia, huh?" he asks, resuming the conversation effortlessly. "Boy, that's _rough._ When did it happen?"

The man is staring at me, obviously fearing for his child more than himself, and he whispers, "Pl—please…"

I don't want to tempt fate by offering him verbal reassurances, _don't worry, I won't let anything happen to her,_ but I try to convey through my stare that I have no intention of letting any harm come to this child, and I give him a short nod. Apparently soothed, at least as much as he can be, he drags his eyes away from us and fixes them on the more immediate threat of the Joker.

"Uh… five… five months. When she was born," he says, and then winces, obviously regretting drawing attention to his baby again.

The Joker doesn't seem to notice. He just nods his head, pulling an expression of sympathy. "Not easy being a _single dad,_ I guess," he says, lowering himself into a chair just by the bed with a contented groan.

The man's eyes flick from him to me and then back again. "No… no, it's not. Listen, what—"

"Let me ask you something, ah, _officer_ ," the Joker interrupts, reaching out and toying with an object on the nightstand I'd failed to notice, a badge, making it glint in the light. "Do you believe in _God_?"

_What the fuck?_ The man seems confused as I am by this unexpected turn, breathing heavily as he stares in bewilderment at his tormentor. "I—why do you—?"

"It's a simple question," the Joker replies, sounding a touch irritated, and the guy wisely chooses to answer.

"Yes—yeah, I do."

"Ah, good," the Joker enthuses. "And what about heaven—hell. Do you believe in _those?_ "

"I… I guess so. Look, man, what the—"

"And if there's a heaven," the Joker exhales loudly, overriding the man's question, "do you think your _wife_ is there?"

The man falls abruptly quiet, and then, eyes fixed on the Joker, he answers, without hesitation this time: "Yes."

"O-kay, good," the Joker replies. He looks around the room for a second, humming a few idle bars to himself, and then resumes. "Well, _officer,_ I'm gonna do you a favor."

"A favor?" the man repeats, watching him mistrustfully.

"Uh- _huh_." The Joker stands abruptly, gesturing towards a minion and grimacing at the man as he moves. " _Nobody_ enjoys the whole… struggling single parent on a Gotham cop salary thing. Oh, I expect you'll _argue,_ " he says, raising his voice as the man starts to sputter. "Survival instinct and all. Still, I'd be willing to _bet_ that you've looked at your kid and wondered… _hey, is keeping her as selfless an act as I'm telling myself it is?"_

"I don't know what you mean," the cop says fearfully.

"Sure you do," the Joker responds glibly as his henchman joins him and hands him a pistol. "You've wondered if it wouldn't just be better for _everyone_ if you… joined your wife, and, uh, _she_ went to somebody who might be… able to _look after_ her better. And seeing as it's Christmas… well. I'm gonna give you a _gift._ I'm gonna take that decision _out_ of your hands."

The guy suddenly goes still. He doesn't plead or beg or make a last-ditch effort to fight. His eyes slide from the barrel of the gun to where I'm standing, frozen and mute with horror, holding his child. He looks me in the eye and says, "Please."

I understand, somehow, that he isn't laboring under the delusion that I'm under any control here, that he isn't asking me to save his life. As the Joker thumbs the hammer back, I put my hand to the baby's head, pressing her to my chest, and turn her away.

The gunshot isn't loud—there must be a suppressor on the barrel; I just hear a harsh pop and the thump of a body falling to the mattress. I screw my eyes shut as the baby starts fussing, startled by the sound, and I do what I can not to cry and disturb her further. "Shh, baby, it's okay," I whisper, knowing that it's a lie, knowing that her father is dead just a few feet away and that the only thing I can do is rock her and keep her out of the hands of the maniac who killed him.

I hear a few footsteps, register dimly that the henchmen have left the room, and then the Joker lets out a hissing breath. "O _kay,_ " he says cheerfully. "Em? Your turn."

I open my eyes and look at him. He's standing by the bed, watching me, and my brain can't quite piece everything together or process what he means. "I—my turn?"

"Put the kid down and come over here," he says patiently. When I don't move, his eyebrows shoot up. "That is, unless you wanna bring her _along_."

Strangely, the only thing I feel is relief that "your turn" apparently doesn't mean "your turn to kill someone," meaning that the child is safe for now. Slowly, I lean over and put the baby back in her crib, and then, feet feeling like lead, I move towards him.

_It's all right,_ I find myself thinking dazedly. _My turn? My turn to die? It's all right. At least this way, I'll finally be free of him._

I stop right in front of him, looking directly up into his face. He stares at me for a second, mouth crooked downward in a mocking frown, and then…

His hand is locked around my wrist, and I feel a burning sting lace down my forearm. He releases me as quickly as he grabbed me, and I recoil, hearing the blood spattering on the floor a second before I look down and see that he's cut me deeply, several inches down my arm.

I'm already bleeding heavily, and I stare, dumbfounded, for a second before lifting my eyes back to his. "Wh—what the _hell_ —"

"Oh, settle down," he murmurs, putting the knife away as quickly as it came and digging in his jacket pocket. "It's not _lethal._ " He procures a folded handkerchief, shakes it out, and snaps his fingers imperiously. "Come on, let me see."

"What the f— _no,_ I'm not gonna—" I start, but he doesn't have the patience for arguing, just lashes out and seizes my hand the second it becomes apparent that I won't obey. He drags my arm out straight and then places the handkerchief over the cut, and then, shooting me a glance that says _cooperate,_ he lets go of my hand. Too shocked to put up more than that token resistance, I hold still as he binds the handkerchief tightly over the cut. The blood starts seeping through immediately, but his object doesn't seem to be to stop the bleeding so much as contain it. After the makeshift bandage is in place, he gives a short, approving nod and then grabs my elbow.

"Time to _go,_ " he says, and then he's dragging me out of the room, away from the body on the bed and— _thank God_ —the living infant in her crib.

As we leave the room, the baby starts to cry.

I remain too stunned to do anything more than keep my feet under me as he hauls me down the stairs. The henchmen are already out, the front door wide open in their wake, and I struggle to keep up with his long-legged strides as he exits the house and clambers his way down to the street. The henchmen have already started the van, just waiting for us, and swiftly, he shoves me into the back, following me in and pulling the doors shut as the van takes off.

I'm not sure quite how, but I'm sitting on the floor of the van in the dark. Over the sound of my sharp, rapid breathing, I can hear him settling on the bench a few feet away, and I want to scream, to ask him what the _hell_ he was doing, what the fucking _point_ of all that was, but I feel like I'm suffocating—I can't even _breathe_ properly, so sparing the air to ream him out isn't really an option at this point.

_That poor man. That poor_ _ **child**_ _._ The thought just cycles in my head, over and over and over, and between that, the hyperventilation, and the deep sting of my bleeding arm, I think I'm gonna pass out.

Then, he speaks, his voice carrying easily over the soft sound of my gasps for air. "You can put a stopper in the _dramatics,_ Em. There's no one here to see."

_Fuck you, jackass,_ I think, but when I open my mouth, all that comes out is "I c—can't _breathe_."

" _Sure_ you can," he says encouragingly. "I can hear ya breathing _right now._ No, this little fit is just a show of the, ah, _moral histrionics_ you think you need to put on, but there's _really_ no need. It's just you and me here, Em. You can drop the _act._ "

I'm on my feet before I quite know what I'm doing, and I bang my head against the low roof of the van. I take no notice, though, feeling a surge of icy anger push through my veins, and suddenly breathing doesn't seem so important. "How fucking _dare_ you?"

"Ahh, and right on schedule, the _righteous indignation_ ," he purrs, sounding entirely too pleased with himself.

"Righteous indig—I just watched you _murder_ a man in the room where his _child_ was _sleeping—_ "

"Technically, you _didn't_ watch," he points out.

"—you killed him in _cold blood,_ and—"

"And you had nothing to do with it," he interrupts, his voice low and warning, "but here you are, making it _all about you_." I can't see him in the dark of the van, but I'm way too far gone to be intimidated.

" _No_ ," I deny hotly, " _I_ didn't make it about me, _you_ made it about me. _You_ did this, so don't fucking shove it onto _me_. _You_ abducted me out of my bed, _you_ dragged me around the town while you kill people, and _you_ had the gall to suggest that me being _upset_ about it is just a fucking _act_!"

"Aaaaand now you're just _scrambling_ for someone to blame," he says, sounding bored, as if he's reading from a list.

I cut myself off, stunned at the tone, and then, pulling in a sharp breath, I snarl, "Are you even _listening_ to me?"

" _Sure,_ Em. I'm _all ears._ I'm just not all that _interested_ in what you're saying _._ " I can tell from the sound of movement, from the shifting of his voice from somewhere around my hip to eye level, that he's stood up, and I step back reflexively, instinct getting a momentary upper hand over my anger and reminding me that him on his feet in a black, enclosed space is _not_ a good thing for me. He keeps talking, his voice getting steadily closer as he goes on: "You see, denials—I mean, they're _understandable,_ sure. I _get_ that you're having a, uh, a difficult _time_ with all of this. But it's so predictable, so… _boring._ Especially since we _both_ know you're full of _shit._ "

That's it. I think he's broken my brain. I can't even begin to try to piece together the line of reasoning that brought him to that conclusion, let alone open my mouth and yell at him about it. I just stand there in the dark, hand braced against the roof of the van, and after a shocked second, I open my mouth and say the only thing that might lead to some illumination—and if my tone is a little more sarcastic than is prudent, I don't think anyone could blame me: "Okay, then, would you care to share with the class? _How_ am I full of shit?"

I'm honestly surprised he hasn't pounced on me, drawn a knife down the uninjured arm and given me a gash to match the other, but the blood is pumping hot and fast and I can't seem to calm myself down enough to concern myself with my safety. If anything, though, he seems to welcome the challenge. "Well, all I'm saying is that you gotta look at the _factsss_ ," he says, the horrible sibilant hissing filling the van, making it difficult to place him, which is a little unsettling, to say the least. "On the ride over—not _one_ protest, not one question about where we were going, what we were doing."

"Well, yeah, your track record with answering questions isn't exactly—"

"And _then,_ " he cuts me off, his voice high and almost playful, "we _get_ to the house… and when the, uh, when the _guns_ came out? I didn't hear one _measly_ argument from you."

"Like you said," I respond in disbelief, "there were _guns_ out, and in case you don't remember, I had a _baby_ in my arms. What, so if I don't drop the kid and lunge over to act as a human shield for the guy, I'm secretly thrilled by his murder?"

"Now, I never used the word _thrilled_."

"Big deal. You implied it. You've been implying it almost since we met, and I gotta say, I'm getting _sick_ of it."

"Oh, you are," he says, his voice low, clearly warning, but as scared as that makes me, I can't seem to stop myself. The frustration has reached its boiling point, and the words are spilling out fast and angry now.

"Yeah, I am. This _agenda_ of yours, this whole thing with me—look, correct me if I'm wrong, but it seems like your whole point as far as I'm concerned is to prove that I'm as fucked-up, twisted, and evil as you are—that I'm desperately trying to hide it, but that I secretly _like_ all this slithering around, watching you kill and terrorize, never knowing when you might decide that you're bored and that it's time for me to die. And you know what? I'm starting to think that you're getting a little desperate, grasping at straws of so-called _proof,_ because _if_ you're wrong, if you really have no clue how I'm genuinely feeling about all this, then maybe you're wrong about _everything._ Maybe your staggeringly cynical view of human nature is completely false and you have _no_ idea what anyone else is really thinking, and I think that scares you. If _I'm_ not evil, then maybe no one else really is, and maybe that means you're alone."

Just like that, the tirade is over, and the van is silent except for the sound of my heavy breathing. I can't hear him at all, and the intense relief I feel at finally getting that off my chest is overshadowed suddenly by the realization that I've gone too far, that whether I'm right or wrong, no one gets to talk to him like that and make it out alive.

The strained silence stretches out for another few seconds, and then he exhales heavily, and I hear him shifting, sitting down with a soft thump. " _Wow,_ " he says quietly, and I can hear the blood rushing loudly in my ears for a few seconds— _is that all? is he really just accepting it?_ —before he comments lightly, "Ya know, I thought _I_ had some crazy ideas."

The fight drains out of me, leaving me feeling a little light-headed—or maybe that's the blood loss. I slip down to the floor of the van, landing with a bump and leaning back against the seat, pressing a hand to my head.

_Is this it?_ I wonder dazedly. _Is he just going to keep me around, driving me crazier and crazier until I finally snap?_ Certainly that outburst hadn't been fueled by rational thinking. Oh, the arguments were logical, sure, and I'll stand by them—but the expression of them wasn't the sanest decision I've ever made. Even if he doesn't cut my throat in the dark of the van here (and I somehow think he won't—he might think that I'll take it as validation of my guessing, the last resort of a man who has no real counter-argument, and he won't want to give me the satisfaction), I feel sure he'll find some way to make me pay for what I've said. The self-preserving, non-crazy course of action would have been to hold on to my self-control, to avoid lashing out at all costs.

_Well, you're doing a bang-up job of that, Emma._

Since I'm already in the hole, I sigh softly, and on the exhale, I whisper, "Why do you hate me?" He's maddeningly silent, so I go on prodding. "What did I do to make you want to inflict all this on me?"

"I told you," he says, quietly and with eerie calm. "Last night."

"Last—?" I begin, flabbergasted—I'm pretty sure I'd remember if he'd explained to me why the hell he's doing this.

"I _told_ you, Em. This isn't a riddle. There's no what, when, where, why—no pretty little package of an answer I can hand you to make _sense_ of it all. And even if there _was,_ I wouldn't give it to you, because that isn't how things work in the _real world._ But hey, if it makes you _feel_ any better, I don't hate you. In fact, I kinda _like_ you."

I laugh wearily, leaning my head back against the bench. "Sure, you do."

"You're still _alive_ , aren'tchya?"

I'm quiet for a second, and then I say, "For now."

He laughs softly, and that's the last we say for a while.


	8. Chapter 8

This ride doesn't last as long as the one before it. When we stop moving, I feel a spike of worry, thinking for a panicked moment that the cop was just the first of several "errands" and knowing that I won't be able to stand by and watch something like that happen again, but he opens the back doors and I recognize the parking garage that we left a few hours ago. _We must have been driving around before to burn some time._

He climbs out and I follow, more than a little apprehensive about getting close to him after my meltdown, but he doesn't touch me, circling around instead to speak to the henchmen, who are still in the van. Lacking instruction, I think _fuck it_ and head to the stairwell, intending to return to the apartment, where at least there are no innocents to kill.

I'm halfway there when I hear the tires squeal, and I glance over my shoulder to see that the henchmen are leaving in the van and that the Joker is following me. It's not the most reassuring sight, and I fight the urge to break into a run, instead proceeding calmly to the doors and entering the stairwell, climbing up amidst the blackness, counting flights. After a moment, I hear the door open behind me, hear him following a few steps back, but I force myself to ignore it, to keep moving steadily up.

He keeps his distance until we get back to the second-story hallway. By the time I reach the apartment, he's caught up, catching the door before I can close it between us and slipping inside with me.

The kerosene lamp is still burning in the kitchen, spilling light out into the corridor, and I force myself to keep going, to avoid looking behind me, though my heart is racing and instinct tells me something's not right. I make it a few steps before he comes up beside me and his arm stretches out in front of me to block my way, hand planted firmly on the wall inches from my face. I take a deep breath, willing myself to stay cool, and then I turn to finally look at him.

He's peering at me with that faint expression of curiosity I've come to loathe, knowing that it's a herald of bad things to come. His shoulders are hunched, head lowered more or less to my eye level, and he reaches up with his spare hand, fingers lightly brushing the skin where my throat meets my jawline, not quite clutching but definitely signaling me— _don't move._ He watches me for a second, and I watch him back, then, he says, "Ya know, as much as I _appreciated_ your little outburst back there… well, it was a little _misguided._ "

"Misguided," I repeat, looking him in the eyes, knowing that he can feel my pulse throbbing against his fingertips but still desperate to appear calm, for whatever reason.

"Uh- _huh,_ " he says, removing his hand from the wall beside my head and lowering it to my throat, stroking the skin there with a gentleness that's completely at odds with everything he's done, everything he _is._ He tilts his head back, watching his fingers idly as they move, and I'm completely incapable of processing what's happening. For the first time since he showed up in my apartment last night— _was it really only last night?_ —I feel the familiar sense of detachment, as if my body's been put on autopilot and I'm observing from a distance.

He rests his fingers in the soft little furrow in the center of my clavicle and lifts his eyes to mine. "I told you. Remember? At the warehouse. You think you're a good person, Em— _fine._ You _hang on_ to that for as long as you can. But that's not the _point_ of this game."

After a beat of silence, I say, "I thought there _was_ no point."

"There's no _answer_ ," he replies, unperturbed. "The _point_ is that you might not want to admit it, especially not with all your, uh, _claims_ that you're a _good person_ —" if his hands weren't otherwise occupied, I swear he'd use air quotes—"but you _feed_ off of this. You _get off_ on the attention, _my_ attention. I've been watching you. You've got _tells._ The point, _Emma_ , is that you _like me_."

His eyes drop to the hollow of my throat where his fingers rest idle, capable of crushing my windpipe at any second, and then flick back up to mine. "Don't you?"

I stare at him, unblinking. _Now's your chance,_ I think. _Now's your chance to tell him to go fuck himself, to knee him in the balls, to make it clear once and for all that you do not want anything to do with him,_ but I can't seem to summon the words. I can only stare, and after a second, his fingers tighten on my jaw, and with a half-swallowed laugh, he pulls my face towards him, leaning forward to meet me halfway.

As far as kisses go, it's… surprisingly chaste. I would have expected violence from him, bruising lips, cutting teeth and a thrashing, choking tongue, but the press of his mouth is light, almost playful, and the only tongue is a teasing touch at the corner of my mouth.

After a second or two of stunned non-responsiveness and his mouth moving against mine, I slam back into myself.

I reach up and plant my palm in the center of his chest and push—very lightly, almost just testing to see if he'll let me, but his mouth parts from mine and he takes a step back. I duck my head, eyes closed, and just stand for a moment. I fold my lips together into my mouth, sucking the burning taste of him off them and swallowing it back. Only then can I look up and meet his eyes, which are regarding me with black curiosity.

The words come without me planning them in advance—I never got the chance; I never foresaw this, at least not as it happened, not calm and quiet and almost completely without an underlying threat. In the face of it, I can only seem to tell the truth.

"So maybe you're right," I say, barely broaching a whisper. "Maybe I _am_ attached—doesn't matter why or how; Sherlock fucking Holmes couldn't explain it and _I_ definitely can't." I see the light of fiendish satisfaction in his eyes and I throw my final point out like a boxer's jab, aiming to hurt or at least confuse him however I can. "But don't you believe for a _second_ that I think it's purely one-sided." The satisfaction on his face bleeds back into curiosity, and I lean forward just a touch, looking up at him seriously. "Believe it or not, Joker, _you've_ got tells, too."

He laughs.

His hands slide off of me, and, still laughing, he turns away. I wait until he disappears around the corner into the kitchen, the sound of his amusement still trailing behind him, and then, quietly, I turn and go into the bedroom, closing the door behind me. I continue on to the bathroom to see about cleaning myself up.

As an effective bandage, the handkerchief doesn't quite cut it. It's already doused in blood, not dripping but fairly saturated, and though the bleeding seems to have slowed considerably, I don't want to take any chances. There could have been any amount of dirt or bacteria on that knife, and the last thing I want is an infected wound.

I've discovered a first aid kit beneath the sink. It's basic, but there's gauze, medical tape, and anti-bacterial ointment. I've made do with worse.

As I gingerly put my arm beneath the running water and start gently dabbing it with soap, it does occur to me that this would be considerably easier if I had someone to help me, especially once I get to the actual bandaging part, but I banish the thought. I am absolutely not going to ask for help. At this point, I doubt I'd ask him for help if I was bleeding out in a back alley somewhere.

The gentle wash has disturbed the clotting a little, but not much. I turn off the water, dab the cut with the corners of the handkerchief not drenched in my blood, and start gingerly touching up the wound with the ointment. I'm not prepared to think about what happened in the hall, not until I get some distance from it. Instead, I turn my thoughts to the previous portion of the night.

I have no idea why he killed the cop. I consider that it might have been a personal vendetta, but I dismiss the thought almost immediately. The cop's behavior didn't point to any prior awareness that he was a Joker target, which is something that he probably would have considered if he'd done anything that might possibly draw his ire. No, the killing seemed just as random and purposeless as any Joker murder.

Except, despite what the Joker seems to want me to believe, I don't believe for a second that his actions aren't carefully planned. checked, and double-checked a hundred times over before he actually makes his moves. All his _I'm not a riddle_ talk, all his insistence that his actions are devoid of any logical agenda or explanation—it smacks of too much protest. He's something of a magician when it comes to the unexpected, and I'm uncomfortably familiar with his tendency towards sleight of hand.

_So look where he doesn't want you to look._

I frown as I reach for the gauze and start unwinding it. _Where he doesn't want me to look_ … well, he definitely hadn't been shy about coming after me in the van, verbally, at least, pulling me away from my panic attack and pushing me into heedless wrath. _And then, after the van..._

I look down at the cut on my arm and remember how senseless his act of cutting me had seemed at the time. I close my eyes and recall the sound of the blood hitting the floor, and I feel certain I've got it. Although, of course, I have no idea what _it_ actually is.

For some reason, he wanted to leave _my_ blood at the scene. A police officer's death will warrant considerable attention, especially a police officer killed at home while his infant child lay in the crib several feet away, but unless I missed something, the Joker left nothing to tie himself to the crime.

My blood, however, ties _me_ there—but it won't be helpful. As far as I'm aware, the police don't have my DNA in their system, and since I never laid eyes on the officer in question before tonight, I doubt they'll come knocking at my door asking for samples, since I won't exactly make their shortlist of suspects. Even if they did, they wouldn't find me.

 _They_ won't, but I get chills down my back as it all clicks into place.

_Of course. He's creating a mystery for his favorite playmate._

An unexplained murder with no serious suspects—Batman will suspect the Joker, if only because he's known to be roaming the city and doesn't need an apparent motive to kill. Additionally, if Batman is half the detective he's rumored to be, he'll pick up on the blood spatter, in the wrong place, from the wrong person. If I'm lucky—or _un_ lucky, according to the Joker—a suspicion will strike him and he'll swing by my apartment to see if I'm there. If he finds that I'm not…

Okay, so there are an awful lot of _if_ s in that theory, but it makes so much sense this way. My blood was a calling card—or, more accurately, an invitation, a playground taunt. _I've got her, now you've got to come and find her or else—ha, ha, ha._

That's _if_ the Batman puts two and two together and realizes that he hasn't lurked outside of my apartment in a while to make sure all is well (and of course, I don't know that he's actually done this more than once; I'm just taking the Joker's word for it at this point). If he _doesn't_ reach that realization… well, on the one hand the Joker has the prospect of a mind-game with his nemesis, and on the other, he gets the smug satisfaction of knowing that Batman was too dim to follow the trail. It's a win-win situation for him.

The puzzle isn't solved completely—how could it be? It's the Joker. A murder/kidnapping mystery definitely wasn't the 'gift' he was talking about earlier, and as far as I know, tonight had absolutely nothing to do with the Falcone family, so there's still a huge gaping hole in the story. Still, the murder and subsequent slicing-and-dicing makes a hell of a lot more sense to me now than it did before.

It's funny—he talks a lot about being some insurmountable mystery, but boil the players of the game down to him and Batman and his motives tend to be laid pretty bare. At least, I think, his primary motives.

I pull the gauze clumsily tight and awkwardly tear off several strips of tape, one at a time. By the time I'm finished, my bandage is secure—not tight enough, I feel, but it's definitely superior to the thin handkerchief, and I feel better knowing that the wound beneath has been cleaned and has had a liberal application of antibacterial salve.

Predictably, as soon as one problem is dealt with, another makes itself known.

My hunger always comes upon me suddenly, with gnawing pains and a faint feeling of nausea, and at this point, my stomach having been neglected for probably around twenty-four hours (I still can't believe it's only been a day; I feel like I've been trapped with him for weeks) it's particularly bad. I wince and delay the inevitable for as long as I can, neatly returning the medical supplies to the first aid kit, but I know I can't put it off for long. I'm not a big person, and what with the recent blood loss, hunger pains soon promise to morph into lasting lightheadedness, possibly blackouts. As loath as I am to cross his path so soon after that unsettling conversation, I'm realistic about the fact that putting it off will only make me weak. I need to stay as strong as I can. With a sigh, I replace the first aid kit and go to search for food.

He's in the kitchen, sitting at the table, but thankfully, he only gives me a side glance as I go to the counter and start opening cabinet doors. My search isn't productive. As decently-supplied as the bathroom is, the kitchen can't claim the same, and I find nothing but empty cabinet after empty cabinet.

He waits until I've searched them all before bothering to speak up. "Ah… _looking_ for something?"

I close the last door with a frustrated bang and turn to look at him. "Do you ever _eat?_ "

The corner of his mouth quirks up. "Sure I do."

"Well, _when?_ " I ask, not doing a particularly good job of hiding my irritation.

In lieu of answering, he comments, "Boy, _you're_ cranky."

"Yeah, I'm hungry," I grumble.

"I gathered."

I belatedly get control of myself. _I am not going to enter into a bickering match with him._ Instead, I sigh and slowly move towards the table, thinking _maybe if I ignore the weirdness, we can just move past it. Like it never happened._ He raises inquisitive eyes to me as I flop down into the seat opposite him, and I force myself to keep my voice level, non-provocative. "What are you working on?"

He's holding a little device, a panel open to reveal a mess of thin wires, and he's using a screwdriver to do… something with it. At the question, he glances back down at it. "Ah… couple of last-minute improvements."

I frown, red flags shooting up in my mind. "Last-minute?"

He gives me a quick, devious look, and, as if on cue, the noise starts—a faint banging, coming from downstairs. "Ahh," he says cheerfully, rising from the table, and I follow suit immediately.

"What's going on?" I ask, unable to quite keep the nerves from my voice.

He doesn't answer, of course. Quite calmly, as the banging downstairs grows louder, he strides out of the kitchen, and I follow warily, keeping a foot's distance. Out in the hallway, he pulls the front door open and sticks his head out. I can hear the noises more clearly now, can make out the faint sound of feet ascending the stairs—coming towards us. Panicked, I look at him, but he seems totally unperturbed. He's actually whistling as he reaches into his pocket and produces—

"Is that a _grenade_?" I blurt out.

"Shh," he cautions me, and then, as an aside almost to himself, he mutters, "Just gotta slow 'em down."

"Who's _them_?" I demand shrilly, and then swallow a shriek as he pulls the pin out. He winds back and hurls the grenade towards the stairwell, and that's all I see before I'm whirling around and fleeing down the hallway, determined to get as much distance between myself and that thing as I possibly can. I get a few feet before he catches up, a heavy arm falling over my shoulders, and he pulls me down a split second before the explosion rips through the outside corridor, impossibly loud.

I don't feel the blast itself—the grenade must have made it to the stairwell, so several walls shield us from the explosion, but splinters and chunks of plaster come pouring through the open door and hit my back. I push my head down as far as I can, dimly aware in the chaos that my face is pressed hard against his ragged cheek.

After a few seconds, the shrapnel slows, and then he's up, clutching my arm and dragging me to my feet. "Time to move," I hear him say, though it's dim through the high-pitched ringing in my ears, and he's pulling me along the hallway. The smoke and plaster dust is thick, and I'm coughing so hard that I can barely keep up, but he drags me along with ease, kicking one of the doors along the hallway open and forcing me inside.

The room is dark, but the streetlamps outside shine through the open window, and he heads straight towards it. I barely have time to register the fire escape outside the ledge before he's grabbing my waist and lifting, pushing me out without much concern for my head or feet, and I decide that I'd better focus on getting out of the window in one piece instead of trying to figure out what the hell is going on.

I spill clumsily out onto the rusty platform, and he follows immediately, barely giving me time to get out from underfoot before landing just behind me. The escape groans beneath our combined weight, and I don't really need the shove I receive from him to motivate me to get moving.

I half-tumble, half-climb my way down, fully aware that he's only inches behind me and that if I fall he might well just trample me. That fear keeps me moderately upright, though I suffer plenty of scrapes from the jutting edges. The escape ends in a five foot drop, and I hesitate reflexively before receiving a push that sends me airborne. For a split second, I'm positive that I'm going to break my neck, but I manage to get my feet beneath me and land awkwardly, feeling pain shoot up my shins, but nothing out of the ordinary for having dropped from a few feet.

He lands beside me with a thump, absorbing the shock through his legs and catching himself with his hands. We're in a back alleyway, and as a sudden, absurd thought strikes me, I start to laugh, backing against the brick wall of the building for support.

He gives me a sharp look, one I'm sure he's been on the receiving end of before, a look that says _oh, for fuck's sake, you've completely lost it,_ and through my helpless giggles, I feel the need to explain: "I… I still haven't gotten anything to eat."

A look of faint exasperation crosses his face. He grabs me hard by the shoulder and pulls me away from the wall. "Uh, _look,_ Em," he says, hustling me down the alleyway, "if _anyone_ can appreciate seein' the _funny_ side of a situation, believe me—it's me. But right now, I need you to _focus,_ hmm? Come on."

"You're the boss," I say, swallowing back the laughter with difficulty, trying to concentrate instead on keeping my balance and keeping in pace with his impossibly long strides. He's hurrying, which means I have to practically run to keep up as he takes us through a dizzying maze, cutting across the street into another alley and then crossing over behind an old building, where he stops. I see a car parked there, faintly recognizing it as the one driven by two of his henchmen earlier in the night, and I turn to watch him, waiting for his next move in silence.

He fishes in his coat and pulls out the device he'd been working on earlier. He turns, facing roughly in the direction of the building we've just escaped, and he glances over his shoulder at me. "You wanna do the honors?"

I have a faint idea of where he's going with this, and it seems wisest to just shake my head mutely. He chuckles. "No, I thought not," he murmurs, turning away again. Without further ceremony, he pushes the button on the device with a click.

We're a few blocks away from the building by now, but still, the sound of the explosion is immense. I strain to see, but the buildings around us block my sight, and the only visible evidence of the blast comes in clouds of thick black smoke billowing up high, dark against the pink-gray night sky. He watches, his face turned up, drinking in the result of his games, and I'm faintly aware that I feel numb, a foreign sensation after all these hours packed with nothing but _feeling._

The ringing in my ears seems to increase, and I don't notice the black creeping along the edges of my vision before it's too late. "Uh-oh," I manage to get out before the strength drains from my body, and I'm gone before I even hit the ground.


	9. Chapter 9

_The house is in South Gotham, one of those old bricks-and-mortar affairs that looks ugly and outdated by modern standards, but looks don't matter much, because ownership of such a home is a status symbol more than anything else. It either says 'my family was here when this city was going up around their heads' or it says 'we may not have been here first, but we've got money now, so who cares?'_

_In Alberto Falcone's case, it's actually both—although his ancestors certainly weren't living in_ _**this** _ _neighborhood when they first came over on the boat. No, the Falcones' ascent to power came later, running parallel to the re-establishment and refinement of organized crime in Gotham—they missed out on the first wave, the mafiosos cropping up in the wake of the Prohibition, so they were forced to bide their time and await an opening. Thirty years ago, they finally got it._

_Of course, Alberto wasn't even alive back then, and now his father is locked up in the nuthouse. Carmine's incarceration left a vacuum, and at the time, Alberto wasn't prepared to step up and take over the operation—how could he have been? The old man's breakdown had come out of nowhere; Alberto figured he had at least another decade until his father slowed down enough to make a mistake and get himself killed. As it turned out, all he could do was secure as many of his family's assets as he could, and then stand back and watch helplessly as a dozen two-bit "gangsters" swarmed in to attempt to fill the void that Carmine left._

_That was several years ago, and Alberto has been biding his time and gathering his strength. Now, things are about to change._

_The study inside the old house is a troglodyte's dream, decorated in dark colors, furnished in mahogany and sporting a huge fireplace. Alberto much prefers more modern, minimalist décor, but he is all too aware that appearance is everything in this game, and so he leaves it the way his father had it—for now._

_He sits in an armchair at the hearth, watching the tall flames, hands steepled meditatively in front of his face. Alberto is a young man, relatively speaking, only twenty-eight, and he's aware that his youth is a disadvantage—almost as much as his weedy appearance. He is of average height, but thin and bespectacled, all of which culminates in a scholarly appearance that does nothing to win him respect among his so-called "colleagues." They respect the appearance of power, the brawn, but the foolish oafs seem to completely miss the fact that without the mind, without strategy,_ _then muscle is nothing._

_It is a truth which Alberto wishes to hammer into their heads, shortly before eliminating them completely._

_The promptest way to do that, in his estimation, is to find a common enemy, one that the usurpers have failed to take down themselves, and destroy it. Clearly, since this is the Italian mob, there are plenty of enemies from which to choose… and yet Alberto finds himself reluctant to pursue the more common route of assassinating the police commissioner or the new DA. They're like crabgrass—the moment they're removed, two more spring up to take their place._

_Instead, he has chosen someone unique, someone… irreplaceable. While the Joker may be on the same side of the law as the family (strictly speaking), he has again and again proved himself to be a loose cannon. He does not play well with others, and more often than not, he seems to take the position that the mobsters take up too much of the Bat's attention—a viewpoint that doesn't exactly benefit them. Sure, things have died down now that the vigilante freak is a wanted man and doesn't have nearly as much freedom with which to work, but the Joker is still not a friend to the mob._

_So, a few days ago, Alberto laid his cards down. He put out the word—he's going to take down the Joker by Christmas. His goal was met with scorn and laughter, but by this point, Alberto is used to being underestimated. He knows it will result in the others being thrown completely off-balance when he actually succeeds and he intends to take advantage of it, moving swiftly to knock them down from their pedestals and take his rightful place as emperor of the city._

_But first things first. He has less than a week to make good on his promise. Earlier in the week, he received a report that Joker henchmen were spotted in the Narrows. A few careful tails later, and his right hand, his cousin Johnny—brawny but brainless—came to him with confirmation:_

" _It's him, all right. Looks like he's been squatting in an old project on Sixteenth. Been there a couple'a days."_

" _Excellent," Alberto replied. "We must move quickly. He's known for being difficult to pin down. Assemble a group and keep a close eye on him. The moment it's confirmed that he's inside the building, go in and take out everyone." When Johnny didn't immediately move to obey, Alberto raised a testy eyebrow. "Something wrong?"_

" _Not **wrong** , it's just… the fellas say they seen a girl with him."_

" _A girl," Alberto repeated impatiently, shaking his head as if to ask '_ _and this concerns me how_ _?'_

" _Yeah. Little thing, redhead, maybe in her twenties. You think they're—"_

_Alberto lifted a slim hand to halt his cousin's doubtless crude insinuations. "Please, Johnny. I'm not interested in speculation on the Joker's private life, if indeed a sorry freak like that has anything resembling personal interests. Suffice to say that if there is a woman keeping company with the clown, she has either thrown in her lot with him intentionally or is being held by force, and I don't much care which. She's collateral damage either way. Stick to the plan, and make sure the men won't be… distracted by a female presence. At least not until the Joker is confirmed dead. Beyond that, it doesn't matter."_

_Johnny nodded and withdrew without further comment._

_That was several hours ago. Now, Alberto sits up and waits for news, planning his next moves, adding contingencies just in case something goes wrong. After all, the Joker is notoriously slippery, and Alberto is not the type to assume success on the first try._

_His phone rings. He stares into the fire for a moment longer before moving to answer._

_The voice on the other end is panicked and breathless, a clear indication of a job gone wrong, and Alberto closes his eyes for a moment before turning his attention towards deciphering the muddled words spilling over the line._

"… _building was wired… exploded, got everyone inside. Johnny was leading the group… doesn't look like… any survivors."_

_Alberto's mind works rapidly, recalibrating around the loss. Calmly, he asks, "Did anyone actually see the Joker, either before or after?"_

" _We watched him pull into the building. The boys spotted the girl through the window of the apartment he was in. Johnny gave the go-ahead."_

_Alberto releases a hiss of frustration. "Did anyone actually watch him leave the vehicle and go into the building?"  
_

" _The van went into an underground garage; we couldn't get a good look without giving ourselves away."_

" _So, theoretically, the Joker could have departed in the van and left our boys to lead a suicide charge on an empty apartment."_

_A pause. "The girl was there. Johnny thought—"_

" _No, Johnny **didn't**_ _think, and now, Johnny is dead," spits Alberto, his one concession to the annoyance welling up in response to the disappointing report. There is silence on the other end, allowing him a moment to collect his thoughts._

_Johnny is dead. It's a loss, but nearly as great as one might think—family is always difficult in this business, especially extended family, and Johnny was a pliable fool. All it would take was the wrong people whispering in his ear and he could have easily become a liability. It's likely that Alberto himself would have had him killed eventually, and so his death is of little significance._

_No, the far more significant loss is the Joker's neat elusion, which sends Alberto back to square one. He finds it interesting but not surprising that the clown was expecting an attack, to the extent that he wired his own hideout with enough explosives to bring the whole building down. Himself, he wouldn't be comfortable in a structure that was little more than a ticking time bomb, but then, to each his own._

_He returns his attention to the phone. "I'm assuming that no one knows where the Joker is now."_

" _No, boss. Me and Scully were watching from the front street, just in case. We didn't see nothin'."_

" _Unsurprising," Alberto remarks dryly. "Get the message out. Every available man is to scour the underworld, question every snitch, tap every source of information. Leave no stone unturned—time is important. We have until Christmas to locate him once more and take him out—do you understand?"_

" _Yes, boss."_

" _Good." Then, as an afterthought: "And spread the word. It's likely that the Joker knows we're targeting him, which means a counterattack is not out of the question. Everyone must be prepared and on guard at all times."_

" _Yes, boss."_

_Alberto nods and ends the call. Calmly, he places his phone on the desk and steeples his fingers again, fighting his impatience as he stares into the fire and begins afresh, planning out a course of action for when he finds the Joker once again._

_The clock is ticking._

* * *

 

Consciousness returns all at once—I open my eyes with a sharp inhale, my mind taking a moment to catch up with my body. I'm in the passenger seat of a car, slouched haphazardly, though someone has been considerate enough to buckle the belt across my waist. I look to my left and am unsurprised to find the Joker driving, face paint stripped for travel once more. A quick check of the backseat reveals that we're alone, and with a soft groan, I struggle to sit up a little straighter.

"Well, that was embarrassing," I mutter acidly, figuring that if I call myself out, then he won't be able to make fun of me.

"Hmm?" He sounds distracted, but I go on anyway, because talking is clearing away some of the webs in my head.

"Fainting," I clarify. "Nobody does that outside of harlequin bodice-rippers." He gives me a sideways look, and I concede, "Well, not that I knew of until just a minute ago."

"Ah, well… don't be too hard on yourself, Em," he says lightly. "Up till then, you were doin' _great_."

I chuckle harshly. "Well, thank you." He nods but doesn't respond, and in the beat of silence that follows, I realize that I can't continue to put off thinking about what just happened. I'm too tired to feel the usual moral outrage, even though I know there were people in that building, probably police. I'm too tired to feel properly scared, even, so I turn my head to look at him and quietly ask, "So do you by any chance feel like filling me in on what's going on?"

He doesn't respond, checking his mirrors before merging left into a turning lane. I nod. "Okay. Well, then, how about I tell you what I'm thinking and you tell me if I'm warm or cold?" Again, no answer, but that's slightly more encouraging than a no, so I take a second to organize my thoughts before beginning.

"Okay. Well, I have no clue what _that_ was all about, but I think I figured out why you killed the cop. I think you want Batman to show up at the scene, to see my blood, and to realize that you've got me. I think you're calling him out to play, but I also think this thing with me isn't your main focus. I think it's misdirection; I think you're keeping him busy with me while you work on another project. How am I doing so far?"

"Not terrible," he says genially. I'm a little surprised by the confirmation, and I pause to absorb it before deciding to quit while I'm ahead.

"So where are we going now?" I ask, settling back into my seat with a sigh.

"Somewhere quiet," he answers briefly. "Now _hush_."

I think it wisest to obey, and besides, I'm too worn out to pester him anyway. I close my eyes, tilt my head back against the rest, and wait for the ride to be over.

We drive for a long time, leaving the Narrows and skirting the hub of the city, heading, as best as I can tell, to the West Side, another area with cracked streets and condemned buildings in abundance. My head hurts and I'm still feeling woozy despite retaining consciousness, and so for now, I'm content to stay silent, to give my curiosity a rest for a while. With any luck, there will be time later to figure it all out.

Finally, we reach a dark little business district that consists mostly of old wooden buildings- mostly still in business from the looks of them, and the Joker pulls into an alleyway behind a row of them. The alley is almost totally dark when he shuts off the headlights, and I wait for him to get out before following slowly, not even certain if this is our final destination or just another errand. He comes around the car and takes my elbow, and, once again showing an uncanny ability to navigate the dark without any apparent effort, he walks me to the back door of one of the buildings, where he strikes the door once, hard.

A narrow slot slides open at face level, and I see a pair of eyes peering out at us before the slot closes abruptly and the door swings open.

Compared to the frigid, electricity-less apartment, this new place is practically inviting. There are lights, there's heat, and, as I follow him hesitantly inside, I smell food.

I quickly locate the source of the smell, a stack of pizza boxes on a table in the center of a makeshift lounge area further inside, and I break from his side without thinking twice, making a beeline to the boxes and shooting hostile glares towards anyone who dares to look at me, warning them wordlessly: _if you get between me and the food, I will bite your hand off_.

No one stops me, and I flip the lid to find the most beautiful sight I've seen in days: a full pepperoni pizza, probably on the cheap, greasy side, but after twenty-four hours with nothing in my stomach, it looks perfect to me. I grab a piece and kick back on an overstuffed, unclaimed couch, propping my feet on the table and tearing into the slice with something very close to bliss. Only once I'm halfway through with it does it occur to me that I'm not actually alone, and I glance up to see the gathered henchmen all staring as if they can't quite believe how thoroughly I'm making myself at home. I switch my gaze to the Joker, who is watching me with one corner of his mouth turned down in an expression that could either be contempt or amusement.

_Fuck it_ , I justify to myself, _I'm hungry, and fainting once in one night is enough for me. They don't want me to eat, they can come rip this pizza from my cold dead hands._

Fortunately, they all snap out of it once it becomes apparent that I'm not going to address them. The Joker is talking, and they turn their undivided attention to him, leaving me to pig out in peace.

"All right, fellas, listen up. Now, the first move went well—but little Alberto isn't stupid. Yeah, you know, _crazy_ … but not _stupid_. He's gonna know we've got his number now, and you can bet his next move is gonna be a little… less… pre- _dic_ table."

He pauses, staring at one of the boarded-up windows facing the street, blocking our presence from the everyday observer, and the silence stretches out for a minute. I watch quietly, unconcerned for now, helping myself to another slice of pizza. Finally, one of the henchmen says, "So, what do you want us to do, boss?"

The Joker snaps back into himself abruptly. "Ah—counter-strike. Fast. Ya know, these mob guys—they're all about ego; they're expectin' us to run scared. They think this is an extermination… and, well, they're right. They're just a little muddled about who's the vermin in this scenario. So, uh— Mumbles? Take some of the guys, do some recon." He jabs a finger at two random others to indicate who he's talking about, and elaborates: "Find the hub. These fellas don't have imagination, they're gonna have a watering hole somewhere around here. I want you to find out where. Oh, and I don't want to see anyone leaving this place— or coming back to it— in gear. No masks, plainclothes. Let's keep it subtle for now."

I've never seen him talk plans with his men before, and I find it somewhat fascinating— it's like the Joker equivalent of a pep talk: positive and cheerful with a hint of menace, lest they forget.

He shakes his head as if just remembering something. "And you know what— while you're at it, find out what you can about baby Falcone. See where he's livin' now, and figure out where he'll go once he finally gets it through his skull that he's in danger. All the relevant information you can find. You can take one of his men if you need to, I don't care. Just don't leave any loose ends."

It might just be my imagination, but I think a couple of the men give me pointed, split-second glances at the words _loose ends_. I ignore them. As nervous as it makes me, being surrounded by strangers that are also killers and quite possibly insane, I'm also aware that whatever's going on between the Joker and me is none of their fucking business. While I definitely don't want to be left alone with them, I doubt I'm in danger of one of them taking it upon himself to remove the distraction.

I finish the second slice more slowly, already feeling impossibly full, considering how hungry I was just moments ago. I resist the urge to stuff myself, knowing that that's the fastest way to make myself sick, and brush the crumbs from my fingers before noticing that the Joker is retiring to a back room, leaving me alone.

My immediate impulse is to follow him, but I fight it back right away. Now that I've got some food in my stomach, I'm feeling a little stronger and a little braver, and although I don't necessarily anticipate spending time with these guys in the future, I also know that the quickest way to establish myself as the weakest dog in the pack is to trot everywhere at the alpha's heels, unwilling to face the others. If I _do_ end up stuck around these guys longer than I'd like, being perceived as a cowering hostage is the last thing I want.

So, pulling my eyes away from the room into which he's disappeared, I give the faces around me a quick scan. Mumbles has disappeared along with the other two henchmen the Joker indicated, leaving three more guys, unmasked, of various ages, sizes, and—judging by the guy rocking back and forth in the corner—mental states. The other two are watching me, and, raising my eyebrows in a mask of carelessness, I ask, "Sup?"

"Who're you supposed to be?" asks one of them, an older guy with a grizzled face and watery eyes.

I chuckle sharply. _That's a good question._ To them, though, I just say, "Ah, the Joker's best friend."

Eyebrows go up. Grizzly exchanges looks with his colleague, a younger guy who blinks and twitches a lot. Twitchy mumbles, "He has _friends?_ "

"Friend, singular," I say helpfully, and then frown. "At least, I think."

They look doubtful, but neither of them challenges me. I think the way I came in might have helped the illusion. I lean back against the couch, spreading my arms across the back and looking around. The place is gutted, the windows boarded up and without furniture aside from a few tables, mismatched chairs, and the couch I'm resting on, but a while ago it might have been an old shop. There's a staircase in the corner, and I wonder if maybe this is one of the old style of shops, where the owner lived on top and ran his business from the bottom.

The henchmen slowly sit down in chairs on the opposite side of the table from me, and with a quick, cautious glance towards the back room where the Joker disappeared, I decide to see how much information I can glean from them.

"So," I say casually, watching as they dig into the pizza boxes, "Alberto Falcone."

"Yeah, what about him?" asks Grizzly, fixing me with a wary eye.

"We're taking him down." It's a statement, not a question, and it's a little bit of a gamble—but judging by the way they relax minutely, it pays off. If they think I'm already in the know, they won't be as inclined to stay tight-lipped about it. I push a little, warming to my role. "What I don't understand is _why,_ exactly. I mean, sure, his old man was a main player, but Carmine's in the loony bin and last I heard, the big name was… ah, what's-his-face. Maroni."

Grizzly humphs. "Maroni got all beat up in a car accident last year. He's not the boss he used to be."

"So, what, Alberto Falcone _is_?"

"Little fish," Twitchy puts in sourly, "with big aspirations."

"Idiot if you ask me," Grizzly snorts. "You don't go around tellin' people you're gonna kill the Joker. Puts you on the wrong radars."

_Oh._ I frown. "There are a million and one people lined up to kill the Joker. I can't imagine he'd take much notice of yet another death threat."

"Yeah, well, who knows how he's gonna react?" Grizzly says, putting up a hand to signal that he's as confused as I am. "He says take out Falcone's operation, we do it, we get paid. Waste of time trying to figure out why, and risky, too." At this, he gives me a sharp, meaningful look, and I show my palms, signaling surrender.

"Just trying to catch up. I haven't seen him in like nine months." That much, at least, is true.

The conversation halts abruptly as the Joker returns, face painted once again. He scans our little assembly as he strides up, and I give him my best innocent face while the guys guiltily return their attention to their food. He doesn't say anything, though, dropping instead onto the couch next to me, and I try to scoot unobtrusively away. He puts an arm along the back, catching my shoulder before I can get too far, and I stop moving in resignation.

"So, boss," Grizzly speaks up. "What's the plan for us?"

The Joker clicks his tongue thoughtfully, tilting his head back and regarding the ceiling with faint interest. "Waiting game," he says at length, before tilting his head down and squinting at Grizzly, regarding him thoughtfully for a moment. "You're new here, aren't ya?"

"Came on board about a week or so ago," answers Grizzly, looking rightfully hesitant.

"Riiiight, right, right. Well, uh— _new_ guy, what you're gonna find out here soon is that… most of this job is waiting. You can only hurry things along _so much_. So," he says, lacing his hands behind his head and closing his eyes, "enjoy the downtime while you can."

The relaxed gesture means he's taken his hand off my shoulder, which in turn means I'm able to scoot to the opposite end of the couch, and this time, he makes no move to stop me. I put my elbow on the rest, tuck my hand beneath my head, and take advantage of the rare peace to puzzle out some of what I've heard.

So Falcone's the target. He probably put himself on the radar when he decided to announce that he was planning to kill the Joker, and then… I think back to the conversation we had in the van, the only time the Joker volunteered a hint of his plans. _Gift-giving. Batman._ I guess this is his way of killing two birds with one stone—taking out the idiot who plans to kill him and simultaneously eliminating one of Gotham's crime elements so Batman has one less thing to worry about—and one less thing to distract his attention from the Joker. It's…. weird, but it makes sense, in a way.

I let out a soft snort and close my eyes. _Figures he's the kind of guy who gives a gift_ ** _he_** _can benefit from, too._

Now that my eyes are closed, I realize how thoroughly worn out I am. It's been a big night, what with all the murder, mayhem, and blood loss. There's a little voice nagging at me, telling me how foolish it is to go to sleep among my present company, but wearily, I stifle it. I don't have much choice, and the longer I go without, the weaker I'll be. My stomach is full and it's warm here, and though it's impossible for me to currently feel safe, I'm as close to comfortable as I'm going to get.

_Just for a little while,_ I think as the drowsiness closes in.


	10. Chapter 10

Next thing I know, I hear quiet voices and am sleepily aware that someone's touching my hair. Reluctant to open my eyes, I nonetheless wake up a little as I realize that I'm lying on my side now, head pillowed on something warm and… there are fingers running through my hair. Resisting the urge to recoil right away, I crack one eye open, see the purple fabric in my immediate line of vision and realize that I'm halfway draped over the Joker's lap, that the hands against my head must belong to him. I start instinctively, but the hands turn to steel against my scalp, holding me in place, and I hear soft shushing from above me.

I think about fighting. The henchmen are across the room, speaking in conspicuously low tones and occasionally glancing over at me, and I know how this must look, but something halts me, maybe the understanding that it's better that they don't see me as just an ordinary hostage to be kicked around. Still, it's unsettling. The positioning… it's like I'm his _pet,_ something he keeps around to play with. A distraction.

_Well, aren't you?_

The thought is weirdly calming in its truth. Add this to the fact that this is about the only display of tenderness (however idle) I'm likely to get from him, and I'm suddenly less inclined to make a fuss. I exhale, shift a little to get more comfortable, and close my eyes again.

_This is how people get Stockholm syndrome,_ that little voice in my head pipes up. _Fixating on kindness where they can find it, convincing themselves that they're safest with their captor, and ultimately defending him against perceived threats. Two out of three isn't exactly a great sign._

_I'm not fixating,_ I tell myself. _I'm… this isn't fixating_. And it's not. If anything, it's me finally acknowledging my confession earlier in the night, right after the kiss— _maybe I_ _ **am**_ _attached_ —and trying to adjust to it in the least traumatic way possible. Following that admission, I can see several potential courses of action available to me—a.) avoid him completely, b.) fuck him fast to get rid of the completely inconvenient tension, or c.) try to readjust and plan a strategy of self-defense, both physical and emotional, in light of the development. Option A is obviously not going to happen. Option B is still an idea half-repulsive to me (I'm not inclined to puzzle out the exact moment when it stopped being _wholly_ repulsive), and anyway, leaving aside the fact that being so willfully vulnerable around the Joker is a terrible idea and that unprotected sex with him is a _worse_ one… this thing with us has never been just about sexual tension, though physicality was admittedly a part of it from the start. Sex won't solve anything, and in fact has a very big chance of making everything worse.

That leaves me with Option C, which is of course the vaguest and most difficult of the three. How am I supposed to protect myself physically when he's bigger, stronger, much less predictable, and much more lethal than I am? How am I supposed to protect myself _emotionally_ when I've gotten so far from my emotions that I can't seem to control them now that they're back?

_Talk about unsolvable riddles._

He speaks suddenly from above me. "You fellas are lookin' a little… ehhh, jumpy. Why don't you hit the _streets_?"

I crack an eye open to see Grizzly looking a bit nervous. "The streets?" he repeats uncertainly.

"Yeah. Maybe start some _fires,_ draw attention away from the rest of the guys. Get creative. It'll give ya somethin' to _do_ for now."

Grizzly looks a little confused, but he doesn't argue. He nods, and Twitchy goes over and grabs the guy in the corner, pulling him up by the shoulder. Another moment and they're out the door pulling it closed quietly behind them, and I'm alone with the Joker again.

I close my eyes quickly, aware that the game has changed once more but uncertain of what to make of it. He's removed the goons from play, at least temporarily, and judging by the speech he made about the importance of waiting, it's unlikely that he did it just to cater to their restlessness. He doesn't cater to anyone, so he must have some loose plan for now.

I'm aware that I'm starting to tremble a bit, and to draw my attention away from my fear, I focus instead on the idle fingers running through my hair. The owner of those fingers is still terrifying, but purely physically speaking, I like the way the nails scrape my scalp, a little too roughly to be called gentle—and he knows it, too, clearly picked up on my reaction to it last night. _Fixating,_ that smarmy little voice in the back of my head sings, but I squelch it, thinking instead, _he likes my hair._ At least, he certainly seems to take every opportunity to touch it. It's almost funny imagining him being drawn to the coppery brightness of it, like a magpie to shine.

_He likes to decorate his persona with vivid colors—purple suit and coat, red grin, green vest… and now a little redheaded pet. Why not?_

His hands go suddenly still, and I tense up right away, thinking irrationally that he somehow has absorbed my thoughts through his fingertips and taken offense. However, he only says, quietly, "I know you're awake, Em."

I don't move, aside from acknowledging the statement by opening my eyes. Although I know for sure that sprawled across his lap is a dangerous place to be for several good reasons, I also get the feeling that sitting up and facing him will signal willingness to engage. Right now I'm scared and tired, and my head hurts and my arm hurts and the last thing I want right now is a confrontation with the Joker.

He catches a strand of my hair and winds it around his finger, tugging lightly on it. It's irritating. "No questions? No… _moral_ superiority? You've been a _firecracker_ this time around, _much_ noisier than last time. What's with the _silent treatment_ all of a sudden?"

"Giving _you_ the silent treatment is an exercise in futility," I mumble, closing my eyes again. "I'm just tired."

"Well, that's understandable," he says, sounding sympathetic, which only heightens my guard. "You've had a big night. Still, you can normally rustle up the energy to, uh, ask _questions_."

I pause, and then slowly open my eyes. "Yeah," I say, turning my head a little so I can look up into his face—he's peering down at me with a look of faint amusement on his face, playing with me again—"but normally, you just dodge them or spin me off-topic," I add, a note of accusation fresh in my tone.

"Well, you never know what you'll get if you don't even _try_ ," he says, looking down at me with a patronizing expression that I'd find infuriating if I wasn't caught up by what he's just said.

_You're kidding me._ _ **Now**_ _Is the time he decides to open up?_ After all, I think I've got everything figured, but still… confirmation of my guesswork would be nice. I get the feeling I'm going to want to be watching him for this, so reluctantly, I sit up, and this time, he lets me go. I don't go far, sliding one leg off the couch, tucking the other beneath me, and turning to watch him closely—and boy, he _is_ close, right in front of me, moving to straighten his cuffs as if preparing himself for an interrogation—or a performance. My knee is touching his thigh, but if I pull it back now, he might notice and comment on it, so I leave it where it is.

He licks his lips and turns his head to face me, looking placid and prepared. _Performance, definitely,_ I think, but since I'm already upright, I proceed.

"You're going to take out Alberto Falcone."

I get a lazy nod in response.

"As a gift for Batman."

Another nod, this one a bit more self-satisfied.

I frown. "Don't you think he might be less than thrilled about that? I mean, you've already killed… however many people were in that building, and Batman's kind of known for not killing people. I mean, until Harvey Dent."

The Joker scowls suddenly, and I flinch back as his hands fly up, but he's only using them to gesticulate, fingers fluttering for emphasis as he says, "No, _no_ —let me tell you somethin' about _Dent,_ okay, Em? The guy was _cracked._ I mean, I oughta know— _I_ scraped away that brittle little layer of _white knight_ that had everybody fooled, and out came the _rot._ I mean, sure, _everybody's_ like that, yeah, but Harvey… he had a special _something._ Like he'd been waiting for _years_ for an _excuse_." He stares across the room for a second, lost in some old memory.

After a second, eyes still distant, he says deliberately, "Harvey Dent may be _dead,_ but you can bet _Batman_ didn't do it. He _did_ take the fall for it, though. And I know exactly _why_."

"Why?" I don't doubt him, considering Batman's habit of sparing lives in all prior cases (not to mention the Joker's much better informed of the doings of the criminal underworld than I am), but I'm interested in the reasoning behind the decision.

"Because," hisses the Joker, "he doesn't want people to _know_ what Harvey _was._ Dent was a _hero_ to Gotham; he was supposed to be incorruptible. He was supposed to _save_ everyone. If it got out that _Harvey Dent_ was no better than all those mob bosses he spent his little life trying to corner and lock away… well. Score approximately _eleven million_ for me."

"You think Harvey Dent turning criminal would turn all of Gotham evil," I say, sounding the idea out, thinking it might sound less insane if I shorten and rephrase it. It doesn't.

"Evil?" he says vaguely, as if the word is a foreign one to him. "No… not in _their_ minds, at least. _Desperate,_ though, sure. Once they realize that their _heroes_ are just as bad as the street thugs, they start depending on themselves. Now, people are _selfish_ as it is, but once they get it into their heads that their _institutions_ have failed, that the protection they take for granted doesn't actually exist, never _has?_ Well. _Chaos._ " He pronounces the word with relish, adding a careless click of the tongue to signify the conclusion of his theory.

I consider it. I can see a sort of weird rationale there, though I can't believe it would work on such a large scale. A whole city doesn't go evil overnight, and even if it did, Gotham isn't a nation-state. We have a federal government that would intervene; the city's not going to turn into some anarchistic no-man's land without anyone noticing.

As if he read my mind, he says, "If you _don't_ believe me, Em, all you gotta do is look at _yourself._ "

_Oh, here we go._ He finally turns his head to look at me, and I lean back a bit reflexively but stay put. Knowing that I'm going to regret it but compelled by my damn curiosity, I ask, "What do you mean by that?"

"Well, _think_ about it," he says, tilting his head encouragingly. "The _police_ failed you, so you went out and got a _gun._ You've already _killed_ people—"

"Men who were trying to kill me," I remind him yet again.

"Oh, sure, sure. Once the _cops_ failed you, you took matters into your _own_ hands—perfectly understandable. But that guy tonight—he never hurt ya, did he?"

"I didn't kill him."

"No. But you didn't stop it from happening, either." When I don't immediately respond, he lowers his chin and prods, " _Did_ you?"

I drop my eyes and don't answer. He's trying to make me feel guilty, and I know it, but the bitch of it is that it's working. Baby or no baby, I didn't even say _stop,_ much less try to get the gun away. I accepted that that man was going to die whether or not I intervened, so I decided to stay out of it and not make things worse for myself. It was an understandable choice, but it carried moral weight.

The Joker shifts, laying his arm out along the back of the couch, and crooking his elbow, lifts his hand up to tap my shoulder. Interpreting it as a command for my attention, I lift my eyes to his. He licks his lips and juts his head out a little, ensuring my attention before saying lowly, "You see… self-sacrifice and _doing the right thing_ … it's easy to _talk_ about until you find _yourself_ in a difficult situation. _Then,_ suddenly, it doesn't seem so relevant."

As difficult as it is, I look straight into the blackness of his eyes, aware that I'm breathing heavier and that there's pressure in my sinuses. _No. Fuck him. I'm not going to let him make me cry, not about this._ Keeping my voice quiet, just above a whisper so that it won't break and give me away, I say, "Recognizing an impossible situation for what it is does _not_ count as evil."

"No… no," he says, pulling a thoughtful face. "But it _is_ pretty cold."

"Interfering wouldn't have saved him. It _would_ have put me _and_ that baby in danger."

He holds up his hand with a theatrical wince, staving off my argument. "Hey, hey—you don't need to explain yourself to _me_. I understand completely—it's perfectly _natural._ All I'm saying is… well. Do you think a _good_ person would have made the decision you made? Hell, _all_ of the decisions you've made since I first picked you up, come to think of it. Standing by while people die, making _nice_ with me and the goons to keep yourself safe—do you _really_ have room to be making all your, eh, moral judgments?"

I drop my eyes again. Strangely, this last speech has made me feel better, not worse—the urge to cry is gone. Additionally, now that I'm looking down, something catches my eye—a little gleam, polished black metal, sitting on the cushion beside him. A folded knife.

_It must have slipped out of his pocket._ I force myself not to reach for it immediately, but I know right away that I want it. Taking a gun while his back is turned is one thing—it would have forced me to make a call right away, _try to kill or be killed,_ and I wasn't ready for that. A knife, though… having a blade on hand would change the game, if only a little. It would give me hidden teeth, a means by which to defend myself from the perpetually-looming peril—and most of all, it would help me stop feeling so damn _helpless_ all the time.

I want that knife. Already, I'm hatching a scheme to get it in my pocket unnoticed, and it's foolish and dangerous, but this whole stupid situation has consisted of me walking a knife's edge. Risks are inevitable, and this time, the payoff is worth it. I don't have time to think it through; at any moment he might notice and pick it back up. I swallow hard and, keeping my eyes down, I say, "You've overlooked a detail."

" _Really_ ," he keens, his voice high and interested. "Oooh. _What_?"

"I do try to do the right thing when I can, you're right about that. But it's only an effort to keep things in balance." Slowly, I lift my head, meeting his eyes again and hiding my fear behind cold resolve. "You see, I'm not one of your test subjects, one of those… _citizens_ you work to disillusion and corrupt."

"Ahh, the cry of the _individual_ ," he purrs, but I refuse to let him derail me.

"You think I lost my faith in institutions when you turned those cops on me? No. I've been alone for much longer than that. I've been relying on myself, _protecting_ myself long before I met you. Maybe I try to look after people who manage to earn my sympathy, but there's not a fucking rule that says if I protect one person, I have to protect them all. You see, I'm not a good person. I don't think I have been for a long time, if I ever was. I take care of myself, I take care of my interests, and whenever I can, I take what I want. That's it."

He raises his eyebrows, tilting his head towards me, and slowly, he asks, "Are… you… _sure_?"

_Showtime._ I don't let myself fully consider how seriously reckless this plan is. I shift, swinging one leg over his and settling astride his lap— _completely vulnerable,_ my mind shrieks. He makes no moves, neither stopping nor encouraging me, just watching, those black eyes lit with curiosity and some kind of diabolical satisfaction, which only serves to set off more warning bells. Ignoring them, I say, "You tell me," and then press my lips against his.

He doesn't respond. _That's not good._ This doesn't work unless he's distracted enough for me to sneak the knife into my pocket, and right now, he's totally disengaged. There's also the irrelevant-but-still present fact that I'm immediately miffed at his lack of reciprocity. It's not exactly an ego booster. I crack an eye open, curious about his total lack of cooperation, and find that he hasn't even had the decency to close his eyes.

_Okay, now I'm just mad._ I pull back just a fraction and mutter, "Well, fine, fuck _you,_ too," and then, without thinking about it, I duck down sharply and sink my teeth hard into his neck.

He reacts this time, all right. He tenses up, a growling sound escaping from deep in his throat as his hand snakes up to clutch at the back of my head, and, encouraged, I tighten my jaw to bite harder. He shifts beneath me and rasps, "I _told_ you once, Em—don't play the _game_ unless you know the _rules._ "

His fingers tighten in my hair before I can react, and he jerks me sharply away. I barely have time to regard the gleaming dark spot on his skin with savage satisfaction before he lunges forward and latches onto my throat in turn, targeting the sensitive spot where neck meets the shoulder, and I feel each and every one of his teeth as they rip into the delicate skin.

_Now, do it now,_ a distant voice in my head is screaming, but I don't seem capable of control, my body reacting instinctively from the pain and arching away from it, pushing into him. I can feel him growing hard between my legs as I draw in a sharp gasp, torn between the sharp ache at my throat and the sudden, unanticipated waves of warmth rippling up from my belly, and without meaning to, I clutch a handful of his hair and grind against him, a soft whimper escaping my mouth.

He pulls back from my throat with a wet squelch, lifts his head, and drags me forward, crushing his mouth to mine. This is the kiss I was expecting the first time around, suffocating and full and battle-ready, and I channel my fight into it, dragging my hand down from his hair and scratching deep furrows into the back of his neck. Even as I return the attack, the absence of pain allows me to get a better grip on myself, and I slip my right hand down cautiously to the couch, feeling as quickly and carefully as I can for the knife.

My fingertips brush cold metal. I palm the weapon and draw my elbow back, moving carefully for my pocket.

Right before I reach it, a hand closes over my wrist, so crushingly tight that I swear I can feel bones grinding together. I'm so disappointed I could scream, but my effort to jerk away from him is thwarted by the steely fingers gripping the back of my head, so I have to content myself with a half-frustrated, half-pained groan. He holds me in place for another moment, just long enough for me to come to grips with how terribly I've failed, and then releases my head and lets me pull back—not without getting a good snap in to my lower lip before I'm out of range.

His free hand isn't unoccupied for long—it quickly mirrors the other, imprisoning my free hand before I can do anything useful with it, and I arch my back away from him, hunching my shoulders protectively as I try to wrestle away. It's no good; his hands are vices, and so I go still and watch him, dreading his reaction.

He cocks one eyebrow high, lowering his eyes to the knife in my hand as he clucks his tongue disapprovingly. "Oh, _no_ , Em—you think this is the first time somebody's put me in a _liplock_ to try to get a blade off me?"

He twists the wrist sharply and suddenly, and I yelp in pain, immediately letting go of the knife. It bounces off the couch and clatters to the floor, and the Joker raises his eyes to mine again. "Of course," he says wryly, "I gotta admit, this was better than the last time. Last guy had _stubble._ "

I astonish myself by laughing. It's just a quick stutter of a laugh, true, and it's half a sob, but it escapes before I can control it. _His fucking weird-ass sense of humor, I swear._

Of course, he latches on to it, his eyes lighting up with glee. Adopting a ridiculous stern-paternal tone, he demands, "Was that an inappropriate emotional response to a frightening or serious situation? Careful, now, Em. Some people'll start saying you're _crazy._ "

Ignoring the jab, I look up at him through the hair spilling over my eyes, summoning my best butter-wouldn't-melt smile and trying to ignore the fact that I'm still straddling him and have no immediate way to escape. _If he's gonna joke about this, then fine, I'll play it off light, too._ Softly, I say, "Well, c'mon. You'd have been disappointed in me if I hadn't at least _tried_ it, am I wrong?"

I flinch as he gives my other wrist a little twist, thinking maybe that was precisely the _wrong_ thing to say, but he just looks thoughtful and says, "No… no, you're not wrong. But I do have a couple of _critiques_."

Without warning, he twists his hips sideways, throwing me off of him and onto the couch. I immediately start to struggle upright, but he catches the back of my neck and forces my head down into the cushion, simultaneously pressing a knee hard into the base of my spine. I try to get my hands under me so I can get up or push away from the couch, but he's leaning over me, breath hot in my ear.

"Next time, don't _start_ somethin' you aren't willing to _finish._ This isn't the playground, kid. _Backsies_ doesn't work here." His fingers bite into the soft flesh of my neck and his mouth butts against my ear as he hisses, " _Understand_?"

I'm seconds away from telling him if he lets me the fuck up then I'll finish what I started, all right, if only for the chance to throw a few solid punches in the process, but I think better of it just in time. "I _understand_ ," I growl instead, jerking my elbow back uselessly in a fruitless attempt to catch him in the ribs and knock him away.

He holds me there for another few seconds, making sure I know just who has the power here, and then he releases me abruptly. I push off of the couch and fall to the floor, flipping over and scrambling a few feet away, but when I turn, he's just sitting back down, leaning over to pick up the knife.

"Second," he continues, flicking the jagged blade out and examining it with brooding interest for a moment before sliding his eyes sideways to me. "If you want a _knife,_ you could always try just _asking_ for it."

I stare at him for a second, and when he just raises his eyebrows and says, "Hm?", I say, "You're serious."

He lifts one shoulder in a non-committal shrug. _What the hell,_ I think, _it's not like I can get much more embarrassed tonight._ "May I have the knife?" I test.

"May I have the knife…?" he prompts.

_Oh. Of course._ "May I have the knife, _please,_ " I add, trying not to grit my teeth and blow my chances.

He flips the knife over, holding it by the blade, handle extended towards me. On hands and knees, still not trusting myself to get on my feet (I might attack him, he might see it as an invitation to attack _me_ ), I warily crawl closer, looking at him again to make sure he's not changing his mind before reaching hesitantly for the handle.

_Crack_ —he whips it down hard across my knuckles, and I swear profusely and jerk my hand back, holding it against my chest as he breaks into an awful, high-pitched cackle. He closes the knife with one swift move, though, and tosses it to the floor in front of me. Even as I glare murderously at him, I snatch it up.

"Hey," he says sharply, wagging an index finger at me. "Think _twice_ before you consider pulling that on _me._ Got it?"

I tuck the knife into my back pocket and nod quickly.

"Good," he says, sounding satisfied, and he toes his shoes off abruptly, stretching his legs out long in front of him. "Don't ever say I never _did_ anything for you," he adds as he laces his hands together behind his head and closes his eyes.

_Wait, he's going to sleep? How the hell can he_ _ **sleep**_ _?_ Granted, it's been a long day, and my body is completely drained, but after all that, I'm wired. I sit with my knees folded under me, back straight, watching him for a few more seconds, and I toy with the idea of picking a fight before dismissing it as a stupid, suicidal thought. Eventually I realize that yes, he's genuinely intending to rest while he has a chance (or maybe just to pass the time, who knows). With a sigh, I get up and drop onto the opposite side of the couch from him, pulling my feet up and tucking my knees against my chest, just watching him. If he's not going to be pulling a blade on me anytime soon, I may as well take the opportunity to organize my brain, reset certain defenses.

Of all the bewilderment and myriad questions spinning through my head, the one my mind lands on is _why does he seem to be waiting for my consent?_

I haven't consciously dwelt on it before now, but the latest incident has kind of drop-kicked it to the front of my mind. I'm not delusional. I know he doesn't exactly lie awake nights thinking about me, but I also know that some part of him is attracted to me, if only sexually.

_So why wait around?_ There are any number of instances, opportunities he's had to just hold me down and take what he wants—not the least of which was the scene moments ago. I _felt_ him; I know that his body at least was fully prepared for some kind of follow-up. He even had me pinned, for fuck's sake. And then he let me go—and gave me a _knife._

Strangely, though, I don't feel totally surprised at the restraint. It was a huge fear for me once upon a time, but the more time I spend with him, the less I see him as a rapist. I frown, scratching at my forearm as I try to figure out exactly why, and eventually I arrive at a few conclusions: it's not that he necessarily has an aversion to the idea, but I think it might strike him as… cheating. I'm well aware by now of his proclivity for toying with people, and I think I'm standing on firm ground when I say that one of his big pleasures in life is systematically dismantling people, destroying everything they thought they were and revealing the black void taking the place of their now shattered self-image.

Leaving aside the fact that his sexuality only seems to emerge at all when he can use it as a tool and apparently is categorized as _unimportant_ the rest of the time, rape just doesn't seem like his style. I can't speak outside of my own experience, but with me, he seems to be… waiting.

_For surrender. For submission._ He wants me to tell him I want it, because that's gonna be _so_ much more interesting—the admission of the fact that I want the very same scarred, murderous Mephistopheles who's been terrorizing me (directly and indirectly) for nearly a year now.

My eyes grow wide as I realize that this whole process, this _for-Christmas-you-get-to-hang-out-with-me,_ the dragging me along on his little murder missions—this isn't just a kidnapping or a frame plot.

It's also a seduction.

I glare abruptly at him and fight the urge to stretch out my leg and bring my booted heel down as hard as I can into his gut. _I can't fucking believe it._ I tighten my arms around my knees, letting out a soft, furious huff. _He wants to prove beyond a doubt that I'm just as weird and twisted as he is, and what better proof is he going to get than me admitting to him that I'm somehow getting off on all this?_

And the part that infuriates me about it all is that he's partially right. Not about getting off—I'm still capable of separating my disgust for his actions from my growing attraction to him, and I don't intend to let those lines get tangled anytime soon. But somewhere along the line, I _did_ develop an attraction to him. Ostensibly, it formed in the confusion after his return kicked up a storm of dormant emotion—a guy who can make you feel _anything_ after months spent feeling _nothing_ is probably going to be the subject of _all_ your mismanaged feelings, be they fury and frustration or appreciation and attraction. It makes sense to me, but… if I'm being honest with myself, _really_ , this has been in development for a long time.

Not from the start. I remember my first meeting with Gordon, the cold horror in my stomach at his suggestion that the bite I'd received the first time I met the Joker was a mark of sexual interest, and I know that attraction hadn't even entered my mind then. But… after that. Maybe when he'd first broken into my apartment, cut the buttons of my shirt and run his rough fingers along the inside of my thigh—as twisted as it is, maybe the full understanding that there _was_ some real sexual tension there paved the way from that point on.

Of course, for much of the time immediately following that moment, I was in direct fear for my life, and didn't exactly have the time or energy to process emotional developments. Not consciously, at least, but I remember the way I'd reached for him during that encounter in the warehouse, ignoring the knife against my throat to reach up and touch his face, and I remember how he let me. And I know that at that point, even just subconsciously, it had already begun. By the time he started making appearances in my dreams, it may as well have been set in stone, even if my emotional numbness kept me from realizing it right away.

Now, as for _why…_ well. At first it could have been a Stockholm syndrome-type response—find him genuinely attractive so you can genuinely like him and then maybe he'll genuinely like _you_ and refrain from hurting you. Maybe there's still a bit of that motivation left, too, but since the game is no longer _make Emma kill or be killed,_ it's no longer a viable excuse.

No, the attraction isn't survival-motivated—quite the opposite, in fact. It's a weird, growing conglomeration of having frequently seen him without paint, of his power to kick-start my emotions, and—I guess—his ability to make me feel powerfully alive after a lifetime of what feels like sleepwalking. What did I have before this, really? A hefty dose of ordinary. Don't get me wrong, I'm not saying I'd be averse to returning to the security of my old life, it's just… I'm not sure if I _can_ anymore.

And that scares me _way_ more than my burgeoning attraction to the murderous madman on the opposite side of the couch. Lusting for him, fine, I can handle that, control it—but developing a lust for the constant adrenaline rush that is life around him? _That_ could spin out of control way too fast. I can't _need_ him. I _won't_ need him. Because the second I do, I can just imagine how _hilarious_ he thinks it'd be to drop me cold, leave me stewing in frustration and wasted hours.

I close my eyes and lean my head against the couch, making myself a promise before letting the weariness sink in: if I get out of this alive, I won't go looking for him. If my life bores me, I'll change it up, I'll do what I have to do to find joy in it again—but I will not trail around at his heels like some sort of beaten-down mongrel. He'll never have that satisfaction from me, no matter _what_ I feel for him.

Feeling a little bit better now that I've tentatively identified his play (I think) and started planning some defenses, I nestle into the cushions and let out a small sigh. I'm still far from at peace, but there's something reassuring about sharing this space with him for now, about the quick softness of his breathing. I relax my knees a bit, and finally, I rest.


	11. Chapter 11

_The picture sputters to life with a few bursts of static, coming to focus on a boarded-up window that admits a faint trickle of dim gray, late-winter-afternoon light._

_It rests on the window for only a second before flipping around to reveal the man holding the camera. The picture is too close to the Joker's face, showing in detail the puckered scars, yellowed teeth, and lines which have creased so often that the greasepaint worked into them is wearing thin. He tilts his face even closer, and a purple-gloved finger materializes in front of his mouth as he shushes his viewers._

" _Quiet, now, Bats. She's_ _ **sleeping**_ _."_

_The camera pans around to a couch, upon which lies a young woman wrapped in an oversized black hoodie, a cascade of red curls obscuring her face. "And believe me," the Joker continues breathily, drawing jerkily closer and dropping the camera down to face-level with the sleeping girl, "she_ _**needs** _ _the rest."_

_The camera crunches and rattles as the Joker sets it on a table directly across from the couch, and he appears in the picture, crouching low over the girl, who sleeps on despite his nearness. The camera's mic barely picks up the faint sound of his idle humming as he reaches down to gently roll up her sleeve, to clear the hair neatly away from her face and neck, revealing a pale, drawn creature marked with numerous scrapes and bruises. The most obvious one is a large purple bruise over her temple, clear even from the distance, but the Joker reaches for the camera and brings it in close again, traveling over the exposed skin to showcase the marks, his silence indicating a certain degree of smug pride in the sight he's presenting._

_He starts at the roughly-bandaged forearm, dried brown blood showing through the gauze and marking the extent of the wound. From there, he pans up to the face, the brow furrowed as if pained even in sleep, the messy bruise on her temple marking where she was struck with something blunt and heavy, and the Joker releases a soft, mockingly-sympathetic "Oooh" at the sight of it._

_The camera moves down to the throat, where purple finger-shaped marks stand out sharply against the pale of her skin, overlapping and bleeding into one another in a way that suggests she's been the victim of a stranglehold more than once in the past few days._

_Finally, down at the junction of throat and shoulder, the camera captures a vivid mark, brighter and fresher than the others, the mark of individual teeth standing out against clean skin, outlining a suck mark in the center. The camera pauses and then flips around to the Joker, who licks his lips and jerks one corner of his mouth down in mocking faux-embarrassment before refocusing the picture on his hostage._

" _Now, see," he begins again in hushed tones, extending an index finger to ever-so-lightly touch the bite mark ,drawing loose circles around it with his gloved fingertip, "this is just the_ _ **start**_ _. Poor little Em, Bats—she needs help, she really does. I mean, uh, I'd_ _ **like**_ _to tell you she'll be_ _ **fine**_ _, that I'll get her home in one piece and at a reasonable hour, but, ah… I'm not sure I could keep that promise._ _ **So**_ _…"_

_The camera creaks against his glove as he twists the camera away from his captive and back onto his face. "Come_ _**get her** _ _, big guy. Oh, and, uh—" He winces into the camera—"I don't want this to get_ _**complicated** _ _, you know; three's a crowd_ _**already** _ _. So even though the news networks'll be airing this_ _**publicly** _ _, even though any number of you—"he twirls his hand absently—"hero cops or_ _**good Samaritans** _ _might be tempted to come rescue her…" He leans into the camera, focusing on his scarred mouth, and, his voice a scratchy octave lower, he says ominously, "_ _**Don't** _ _."_

_He leans back again, giving the camera a warning look, eyebrows raised pointedly. "You can do your part by playing this on the news for a couple'a days to get the message out to Batman, make sure it reaches whatever_ _**cave** _ _he's hiding in… but, uh, let's face it._ _**He's** _ _the only one who stands a_ _**chance** _ _of getting sweet little Em out alive."_

_He glances past the camera towards the couch where the girl sleeps, and, distantly, as if speaking to himself, he murmurs, "Peace on earth."_

_His eyes flick back once more, and he leans in and adds, "Good will to men. Merry Christmas, everybody," and, as he starts chuckling wheezily, the static fuzzes and the video ends._

_Bruce has viewed the video three times since it first aired on Gotham 3's six o'clock news a half hour ago, and as it concludes, he starts it over for the fourth time. He needs to be out there doing something, but he can't risk working blind, and until his scans find some match with which he can work, he won't know the most efficient place to start looking. So he keeps watching the video, because it holds the growing frustration at bay, makes him feel as if he's doing something._

_He's analyzing the video, both manually and by computer, in order to get a rough idea of which area of town the Joker filmed it in. He has some ideas, but old, abandoned shop space is plentiful in post-recession Gotham and he needs to narrow his options way down before he ventures out._

_Alfred is nowhere to be found, a clear indication that he disapproves of Bruce's intent to give the clown exactly what he's angling for. Alfred is of the opinion that Bruce should let the police handle it._

_Bruce listens to the ending of the video again, the Joker hissing "Three's a crowd_ _**already** _ _," and while he understands Alfred's concern, he knows he can't just sit in the cave and do nothing. Whether he wants to or not, he can read between the lines, and the unspoken threat is clear: if the police by some miracle manage to fumble their way to the Joker's current hideout in an effort to rescue his victim, then Emma Vane is dead._

_No, this is a direct summons for Batman: the Joker made it explicitly clear that only_ _**he** _ _stands a chance of extracting her alive. Of course it's a trap and of course Emma is the bait, but what can he do? Even if he hadn't sworn to do his utmost to save the would-be victims from criminal street-scum, he feels particularly responsible for Emma. He's freed her from the Joker's clutches once, but he should have gone further with it, should have insisted that she leave the city—if not as Batman, then as Bruce Wayne. Surely he could have come up with something, could have approached her with the claim that her story had drawn attention, offered her security and a job in exchange for her willingness to share her story with profilers safely across the country, something like that._

_But no. After the Joker escaped Arkham and showed no signs of renewed interest in her, Bruce had allowed himself to believe that she was marginally safe. He still checked on her regularly, but as time wore on he started to believe that the Joker had been encouraged by Batman's attention at the warehouse and was laying low, devising his next big scheme to draw him out._

_Well, he was partially right. He just should have figured on Emma being a pawn in that plan. He suspected it when a spatter of unidentified female blood showed up randomly at the scene of a cop killing the night before, and a sweep of her apartment revealed a broken window and no Emma. This video just confirmed his suspicions, and the worst part is knowing that it's his fault. He should have tried harder to get her safe before the Joker got the chance to get his hands on her again._

_His jaw tightens as he rewinds the video once again. He's been monitoring police response since the video first aired, and Gotham PD is putting in a halfhearted effort to decipher the location, but mostly they just seem relieved that Batman is the focus and that the Joker has no apparent plans to throw them into the crossfire. In a twisted way, he understands. Considering how large and catastrophic the scale on which the Joker usually works, a kidnapped girl and a disgraced vigilante seem like small targets in comparison._

_Which makes him suspicious. Certainly the Joker's pet game is drawing out the Batman, but small-scale isn't his style, no matter how effective. He's shown the repeated capacity for running multiple schemes at once, and Bruce has a vague idea of where this is going. Alberto Falcone's intent to kill the clown has become public knowledge in Gotham's underground, and the project building explosion that took out a dozen of his men last night was a little too conveniently-timed to dismiss._

_Like all good detectives, Bruce doesn't believe in coincidence, and his jaw tightens grimly as he watches the camera pan over the girl's injuries once more. The Joker's game is to make him choose—locate and rescue Emma before the clock runs out, or ignore her in favor of investigating and preventing the Joker's play against Falcone's outfit._

_The Joker is using his one rule against him yet again, and he channels the sudden flare of hatred he feels into determination. He refuses to play this game, to weigh the value of one innocent life against the lives of dozens of criminals._

_He has to find the Joker. It's the only way he can thwart both plots—if he catches the clown, he'll avert both Emma's murder and the deadly war against Falcone._

_The computer beeps, and he instantly pulls himself from his thoughts, turning to the screen. The analyses are finished, and there are several possible matches, but the most likely one is an old shopping district near Tricorner Yards—the rough glimpses of the boarded windows lining the wall matches a pattern most commonly used in old store blueprints for that particular region._

_He glances back at the video in time to catch the most disturbing part again—the clear shot of the bite mark, followed immediately by the Joker's faux-guilty face. The implications of sexual victimization are new, and even though Bruce isn't necessarily surprised by them, they still make him feel vaguely sick. The public nature of it, focusing on the mark in a video that all of Gotham will see… he can't help but read it as a direct taunt, a show of territorialism—_ _**she's mine, Bats, just try taking her away from me now** _ _._

_It strengthens his resolve. Wasting no more time, he shuts down the computers and rises to suit up for the night. He has to find the Joker, and soon. He refuses to dwell on what could happen if he fails._

* * *

"Em… Em." The quiet singsong draws me out of sleep, but I'm still tired, and my body aches something fierce, so I stubbornly refuse to open my eyes.

Predictably, he doesn't let up, jabbing a sharp finger into my shoulder as he croons, "Aw, come on, Em. 'S time to get up. Unless you want me to _carry_ you?"

"Yeah, right," I mutter to the couch cushion. "You'd drop me on my head." He snorts softly and jabs me again, and I reach up to grab his hand, opening my eyes and glaring at him. "All right, already! Jeez." He extracts his hand from my grip and settles patiently on the couch next to me as I sit up and rub the sleep from my eyes, asking sourly, "What do you want?"

"I told you, it's time to move."

"I thought this was a safe house."

He snorts. "No such thing, Em."

"Well, doesn't that make me feel all warm and fuzzy." I stretch my arms over my head and start to yawn, but the bastard _pokes me right in the center of my tongue,_ throwing off the yawn and freaking me the hell out in the process (because, come on, who _does_ that?). As he cackles, clearly pleased with himself, I scoot a few inches further away from him and pointedly ask, "So where are we headed?"

"Uh, it's a surprise."

_A surprise. Great._ I lift my eyebrows. "Can I at least pee?"

He looks startled and glances around before leaning in close, asking furtively, "What, right _here_?"

_Oh, for fuck's—he's in a_ _ **mood**_ _today_. It's fortunate that there are no pillows in reach save for the heavy couch cushions, because I am sorely tempted to throw something at his face. I opt instead for chilly dignity as he laughs at his own cleverness, and I rise and stalk into the back room in search of a toilet.

I find a bathroom, and after taking care of business I check the latest damage in the mirror. Wincing at the ugly bite mark—which incidentally brings back memories of last night's… unpleasantness—I zip my hoodie up, thankful that the bruising is low so I can conceal it. My hair is a tangled mess, and I finger-comb it the best I can, but it doesn't do much good. There are bags under my eyes despite the sleep, and my skin is even paler than usual, making my freckles stand out starkly. I look sick—or crazy.

_That's okay,_ I think, splashing some water onto my face and then ducking under the faucet to drink deep. _Looking ugly can only keep me out of trouble._

A sharp bang on the door makes me jump. "Hurry up with the _primping,_ Em," he says from just outside. "We gotta move."

"Far be it from me to screw up your schedule," I say, taking care to speak quietly so he doesn't actually hear me, and I grab a hand towel and dry my face before unlocking the door and stepping out.

He's waiting right outside, and I force myself not to recoil away from him, instead looking defiantly up into his face. "What's the rush?"

He doesn't answer, just wraps a hand around my elbow and turns, pulling me along with him. I hurry to keep up, suddenly worried. In my experience, the Joker on a timetable is not good news. "Seriously, what's going on?" I ask as he drags me out through the back of the shop, towards a waiting van in the alleyway. The sky is growing dark, but I can still see some of the relentless gray of winter daytime, so I place the time as being around five o'clock—or earlier; we _are_ drawing close to the solstice.

_Or did we pass it already?_ I think vaguely, before reminding myself fiercely that it doesn't matter. _Wake up,_ I scold myself as the Joker pushes me into the back of the van. It's a different vehicle from before; there's no barrier between the back and the front, so at least this time I have enough light that I can see him. A pair of henchmen is in the front. There are no seats in the back this time, so I quickly settle down on the floor as the Joker follows me in, unwilling to get knocked off my feet by a rapid takeoff.

He leans towards the front, addressing the henchmen. "Everything going _smoothly_?"

"Gags just called," answers the driver. "All's clear, they're just waiting on us."

"Good, good," the Joker purrs, pulling back and leaning against the passenger wall. "Let's _go._ "

The driver pulls out of the alleyway, and I move forward to look out of the windshield and see where we're going, but the Joker leans down and knocks me back again. I regain my balance and glare up at him. " _What?_ "

"Stay back," he says simply, giving me a warning look. I start to argue, but think better of it just in time. He may find my bickering amusing in private, but somehow I think he won't take too kindly to being undermined in front of his goons.

The driver sets us on a languid path. I don't recognize him, but my view into the passenger seat reveals the guy from last night, the rocking, silent one. I wonder vaguely what use a catatonic henchmen could possibly be and eventually decide I don't want to know. I look up at the Joker again, but for once, his loquaciousness has dried up and he doesn't seem inclined to chat, so I lean back, cross my arms over my chest, and wait.

And wait. We drive for what feels like an hour, mostly trapped in Gotham's stop-and-go rush hour traffic (which is only exacerbated by the impending holiday), and I start to wonder if we're ever actually going to _get_ anywhere. He wasn't kidding about patience. I spend most of the time leaning back against the wall with my eyes closed, trying not to think too hard about what he's got in store _this_ time. I'll deal with it when it happens. In the meantime, I can't do anything about it. He won't even tell me what he's planning.

Finally, the van stops for good, the driver putting us in park. The Joker thrusts a gloved hand into the front seat, and the driver hands him a cell phone. Humming, the Joker keys in a number and puts the phone to his ear. After a beat, he asks briskly, "All set?"

He waits a moment before nodding. "Good, good. Clear the guys out of the area. We're sendin' him in."

He ends the call and tosses the phone carelessly on the floor near me, and I think about grabbing it for a moment before dismissing the idea. _Who am I gonna call? The police? 'Yes, Commissioner, I'm with the Joker in a van… somewhere in the city. You've got about five seconds before he realizes what I'm doing and rapidly changes location.'_

I focus instead on the Joker. Covered now by darkness, he leans into the front seat. Turning his face towards the mute passenger, he says simply, "Billy."

For the first time, the guy quits rocking and lifts his head. He doesn't look at his boss, but the Joker goes on regardless, his voice gentler and sweeter than I've ever heard it. "It's time to _go,_ Billy. Look across the street for me—just there." He points toward the passenger window, and Billy slowly turns his head to look. The Joker places his hand on his shoulder and continues. "There, see? Raphael's Tavern. Falcone's guys are in there, and… they've been really _naughty._ "

"But it's Christmas," Billy says slowly. His voice doesn't match him; he sounds younger than he looks, soft and bewildered.

"Yeah—yeah, I _know_ ," the Joker murmurs. "That's why you gotta go in. Go and tell 'em that if they don't be _nice,_ they're all gonna get _coal_ in their stockings this year."

"Everyone deserves a second chance," says Billy vaguely.

"That's right. Tell 'em _that,_ too." The Joker claps him abruptly on the shoulder. "Go on. Do it for me, would you?"

"Yes, sir," Billy mumbles, unlocking his seatbelt and opening the door. He closes it behind him, and I climb to my knees to try and see around the Joker, out the window.

Billy's arms are wrapped tightly around himself, but he's walking steadily across the street. I flinch as a car zooms past, nearly clipping him, but he doesn't waver, heading directly for the door beneath the dull _Raphael's Tavern_ sign.

I find myself clasping the Joker's wrist. He doesn't spare me a glance, but, trying to fight off the rising horror, I blurt, "You're sending him into a bar full of mafia guys? What's he supposed to do?"

Eyes still fixed on Billy, the Joker gestures impatiently at the driver, mumbling, "Guys like that, Em—you can't expect them to _do_ all that much. No, I find it more effective to just pull the old _point_ and _shoot_."

As if to underscore his words, the driver passes him a device that looks suspiciously familiar, and as I recall that he used one much like it to detonate the building last night, the awful realization sinks in. I look swiftly back at Billy, taking in the much-too-large coat concealing his torso just before he disappears through the doors of the bar and I lose sight of him.

My reaction is immediate and unthinking. I lunge forward, snatching at the detonator, and my hand brushes cool metal for just an instant before the Joker grips my shoulder hard and thrusts me back, holding me at arm's length. "Ah, ah, ah," he says as the driver puts the car and gear and pulls away, starting to put distance between us and the bar. "I understand you're excited to see the _fireworks,_ " he adds, giving my shoulder a painful wrench as I try to pull free, "but _this_ one I gotta do myself."

" _No_ —" I shriek just before he clocks me across the face with the detonator. I go sprawling across the floor of the van, face on fire, and before I can struggle upright, I hear a click. Then—

_BOOM._

I imagine I can feel the van lurching forwards a few feet, propelled by the explosion. The tires peel out as the driver accelerates rapidly, but I doubt anyone's going to take much notice in the wake of yet another demolition. The Joker is whooping joyfully, craning to look back out of the window and view his handiwork, and I slowly sit up, pressing a cold hand lightly against my burning cheek, trying to ease the searing pain.

As the driver takes a sharp turn, removing what used to be the bar from his line of sight, the Joker falls back, still chortling. I feel dampness creeping across my palm, but I ignore it, channeling my focus into hatred. _Maybe if I glare hard enough, he'll burst into flames._

He notices the look I'm giving him soon enough, and as he gasps for breath, he demands, "What's… what's _wrong,_ Em?"

"You know _damn well_ what's wrong," I shoot back, voice low and shaking.

"I didn't think you'd take it _personally._ Demolitions are kind of _my_ thing."

_Enough of this bullshit._ I feel almost angry enough to attack, but my stinging face is a reminder that it would be a terrible idea, so I settle instead for yelling, all thoughts of refraining from undermining him far away by now. "If I'd gotten my hands on that fucking thing I'd have thrown it out the back and you _know_ it!"

" _That's_ not very responsible," he says patronizingly. "What if a kid found it?"

" _Responsible?_ You just strapped dynamite to a mental patient and told him to go talk about Santa while you blew him up!"

"Uh, it was _C4_ ," he interjects.

" _I don't give a shit!_ " I screech. "Since when do you use _suicide bombers_?"

"Since I could find a use for them," he says, sounding vaguely perturbed by my anger. Street lights flash into the back of the van for a moment, illuminating his face—he's squinting bemusedly at me, playing dumb. "I thought you'd've been happy."

"Happy? Oh, yeah, super-happy about you sending a vegetable to his death."

He tilts his head at me. " _Vegetable_?" he asks intently, his tone loaded.

"I didn't—" I falter, realizing my mistake too late, but he just plows right over me.

"So even by your, uh, _rigid_ standards, little Billy was barely alive. And, uh, when he _died_ right now? He took out a bunch of _killers._ Those guys in that bar, they could've gone on to kill dozens, maybe even _hundreds_ of people. One life sacrificed for hundreds—and you have a _problem_ with that?"

"You didn't send him in there to save lives," I say, becoming aware that I'm shaking with anger.

"What do you care about my _intent_?"

I stare at him as the street lights flash across his face again, drawing in a trembling breath. "You didn't give him a choice."

"Ahh… you heard me _ask_ him, didn't you?"

"You know what I mean—he wasn't _capable_ of knowing what he was doing, you just—"

"Again—I took out a pack of _murderers_."

"That is _not_ the point!"

"Oh, I think it is, Emma," he says lowly. Thrown by his use of my name, I hesitate, and he seizes his advantage. "The _point_ is that _clearly,_ you couldn't care _less_ about people getting killed—unless it happens _in front_ of you."

"The fact that Falcone's men may _possibly_ have committed murders in the future does _not_ justify—"

" _More_ than just a possibility, Em," he continues, still with that unnerving calm. "They're _mafiosos._ It's _what they do._ "

" _So what_?" I cry. "I don't give a _shit_ that they're dead; I just object to the fact that you used a _severely mentally ill_ man to do it, killing _him_ in the process!"

"You've got a _hell_ of a sense of entitlement, there. Making judgment calls on who gets to live and who needs to _die_?" He tsks briskly, and I'm sorely tempted to get up, go over, and punch him in the face. "How does it feel, living based on an ideology that makes _no sense_?"

"I don't know," I snap. "Why don't you tell _me_?"

"Ah, ah, ah. There's a difference between us."

"Let me guess—I'm not _crazy_?" I mutter.

A half-second's silence is the only warning I get that perhaps I spoke a little too loudly, and I instinctively fling myself backwards, but he's starting from his feet and I'm sitting, so I'm barely able to start trying to stand before he's on me, his fingers closed tightly around my throat as he knocks me to my back. One knee rests beside me as the other crashes into my stomach with a force that winds me instantly— _not like I'd be able to breathe, anyway—_ and he leans over me, lips hitched back from his yellow teeth sneeringly. "What was that? I didn't quite _catch_ it."

_My ass, you didn't,_ I think, but I'm nowhere near capable of speech at the moment, my hands shooting up unbidden to claw at his eyes, to drive him back. He barely seems to notice, slapping my fingers away before they can do much damage and pinning my wrists together against my chest.

My air supply is dwindling rapidly with the combined challenges of his fingers digging into my throat and his knee shoved into my diaphragm, and the more I fight back, the more pressing my need for air becomes. Even so, I struggle against him, trying to twist my hands out of his grip, knowing he can see the panic in my eyes as he holds his face inches above mine.

"Thought not. See, Em, I've got the opportunity to teach you a _very_ important lesson here." His leans forward close, and in a moment, his voice is rasping in my ear, his chin bumping against my cheek. "Save the _mouthing off_ for when _you_ have the upper hand."

My struggles are weakening as my lungs burn, and I know he can feel it, because he starts chuckling, hyena-like, as he draws back again, fingers digging deeper into my flesh. "Other-otherwise," he laughs, his eyes glazed over with something inhuman as he peers down at me, "it could just be the _death_ of you."

_This is it,_ I realize as I recognize the bloodlust for what it is. _He's really going to kill me this time._

And, from somewhere in the awful depths of my mind, the part that I try not to acknowledge too often, something whispers _good. At least you'll finally be free of him._

Rather than choking the thought back, I let it grow, and in seconds, it's consumed what's left of my consciousness. _Good. Good. Good._ I'm scarcely aware that I've stopped fighting him, blatantly defying that pull to _survive_ that got me this deep in to begin with, and as black spots start swelling in my vision, I blink once, slowly, self-satisfied. _Good._

It's hard to tell through the black, but I think I see him frown.

Then, the horrible, painful pressure disappears. Disoriented, I think at first, _that's it, I'm gone_ —but my body takes over, and a sharp painful gasp brings a flood of air into my lungs. I choke on it, my bruised windpipe aching and scorched by the oxygen, and I twist over onto my side as I submit to a fit of sharp, painful coughs.

Faintly, I'm aware that he's crouching just behind me, and I hear his voice, low and composed. "Oh, no, Em. It's not gonna be that _easy_."

I don't have the strength or desire to reply, too busy navigating the struggle of breathing, curling up as tightly as I can, pulling away from him. It seems like a long time before I can breathe without coughing all the oxygen right back out again, and even when I get past the fits, it still hurts. I can't help but wonder if the damage is permanent, if I'll ever be able to breathe again without feeling this pain and remembering this moment, but for all that, I'm weirdly calm.

The incident has made something clear to me, something I probably should have realized a long time ago.

If I die, he loses. It's not a big loss, sure, and I'm sure if I twisted his arm even just a little, he'd kill me and get over it just fine, but… if I die, he's out a plaything. More importantly, though, I get my freedom. Sure, it won't be on my preferred terms, but at least I won't live in terror anymore.

I don't think that will _keep_ him from killing me, but until he's found a way to make my continued existence valuable to someone so that he can enjoy their pain when he rips it away, I doubt he will actively _try_ to kill me.

And… that puts me in the unusual position of having the ball in my court.

I'm not sure what to do with this information, so for the time being, I lock it away in the back of my mind.

I'm feeling a little stronger now, so I roll over towards the opposite wall and drag myself upright. My throat aches deeply, the new injuries compounding the old ones, and I'm shaking uncontrollably, but a painful brush with death will do that. I dare to glance quickly at the Joker, and of course he's confronting the discomfort in the van head-on, sitting against the opposite wall, staring at me over an arm propped lazily atop his upright knee.

Now isn't the time for sass. I need a few minutes of peace and recovery, and so, in an effort to calm the waters a bit, I say, "I'm sorry"—and immediately regret it. Not the words—I _am_ sorry I mouthed off, though not so much for what I actually said—but because speaking hurts like a bitch, and I barely recognize my own voice, hoarse and rasping, far from my usual level deadpan.

I'm not sure what I expect, exactly. The Joker blinks owlishly at me, tilting his head back and shaking his head in ostensible confusion. "Uh. For _what?_ "

Always mercurial in his presence, I feel a flare of anger and think _Oh, I don't think so. He's not going to pull that shit and pretend nothing happened._ _Fuck the pain,_ and I rasp out, "Oh, I don't know. Whichever part of it made you sling me to the ground and throttle me, I guess."

Surprisingly, this results in a flash of teeth, a brief snort-chuckle, and he lifts one hand to point genially at me. "Look at _you._ Half-dead and you're still talking back." I can't tell if the tone I'm hearing should be read as twisted admiration or a warning— _stop before you go too far._ Either way, I feel safest changing the subject.

"Before…" I start, then think it's probably wiser to skip ahead a bit. "You were saying. There's… a difference. Between us."

"Riiight," he purrs, looking faintly pleased at my focus. "Ah… right, before your little _interruption,_ I was saying, yeah, there's a difference. I don't _care_ that the world doesn't make sense. _You_ do."

I'm silent, partially because it hurts like a bitch to talk and partly because I don't quite know what to say. My input doesn't seem to be required, though; he warms to the subject, stretching his legs out in front of him in an inverted v and clasping his hands together between them.

"You get angry when you can't offer, um, _logic_ for what you want. Lots of—" he raises his hands to make air quotes—" _bad_ people just died, Billy included. Oh, yes, Em," he says in response to my skeptically tilted eyebrows, "don't let the _lost little boy_ act fool you—Billy's done some… awful things. But you don't care about that, do ya? You're just mad because you think his death was _unfair_. And that _bothers_ you. You just lash out because you can't come up with a good reason _why_."

I stare at him, and I maintain my silence, because no one wants to admit that the Joker might have a point.

He stares back, looking increasingly smug as the seconds tick past. Finally, he clicks his tongue and winks, pointing at me. "We both know you're no _hero_ , Em. Why don't you leave that to the guy in the cape?"

I don't have a response. I just tilt my head back and bring my hands up to cover my injured throat, suddenly wishing that this ride would end so I can get away from him, go somewhere relatively quiet so I can rearrange my head.

He falls silent, and in the ensuing quiet, I realize something. The lump in my pocket serves as a sudden reminder that I've had a knife on me the whole time, and yet in those moments I was trapped under him as he choked the life from me, I didn't even think about going for it, sticking it in his ribs.

If it didn't hurt so badly, I would laugh, because the twisted humor of it all is finally sinking in. _Death is freedom._

And I think he's winning this game, because I think there's a part of me that's starting to want it.


	12. Chapter 12

Soon enough, my wish for an end to the ride is granted. The van pulls to a stop, and the driver puts us in park. The Joker gets to his feet, and I pull back instinctively as he comes close, but he ignores my flinching, reaching down and grabbing my locked elbow, drawing me up.

The van doors open, and he shoves me towards them—I'm barely able to get my balance in time to jump out rather than falling flat on my face on the pavement. As I recover, I look around to see that we're in another unfamiliar place—it looks similar to the project building where he took me first, but I'm guessing it's an entirely different neighborhood. He lands on the street beside me as I get my bearings, and I feel a sharp flash of pain as his hand curls around the back of my neck—his fingers aren't digging in, exactly, but he's exerting pressure and the flesh is sore. I wince, reaching up reflexively to try to bat him away, but his grip tightens minutely and I think better of struggling.

He steers me towards one of the old buildings, and I move fast to keep up, attempting to avoid another painful squeeze. The inside of the building is dismal as expected, and he walks me up the stairs, up to higher ground.

The apartment we enter is more of a loft—one big room with a door in back, lit dimly, with henchmen scattered about on the floor, in folding chairs, cleaning guns and sharpening knives. I try to count the guys as the Joker pulls me along. I reach ten before he hauls me through the back door.

It leads to a room that's smaller and quieter, furnished with a tall, heavy steel table and a spattering of mismatched chairs. The Joker pushes me down into one of these, and I'm all too happy to stay put—I'm sure his hustle is admirable, but the fast trek indoors and upstairs has me a little out of breath, and I'm glad to sit down and regain it as painlessly as possible.

He goes to the table, where two henchmen wait—one's unfamiliar, but I recognize the other from the cop-killing excursion. I softly rub my neck where the Joker was clutching it, trying to erase the feel of his bruising fingertips, and I listen.

Henchman #1, the familiar one, speaks up. "Done deal, boss?"

The Joker stabs a finger at a spot on the paper-covered table. "The _bar_ crowd is outta commission."

"Good," Henchmen #2 rumbles. "Falcone's panicking, if he's smart."

"What d'ya think his next move will be?" asks his fellow.

The Joker sucks in a breath, bending forward over the table with his hands on his hips. "Well… Falcone _is_ smart. He's gonna be expecting more attacks, so a _smart_ guy would rally the _troops,_ pull 'em away from known hideouts and spread them around to… ah, _safe_ houses while he plans a counter-attack."

"So where does that leave us?"

"Hmm." The Joker straightens up. "Who's inside?"

"Beemo, Chuck, and Arnie are in with his guys," Henchman #2 reports. "They ain't high enough to get any real good information, but if they split, we could maybe get our eyes on a couple of hideouts."

The Joker brings his hand solidly down on Henchman #2's shoulder, making both him and me jump. Eyes still glued to the tabletop, he says, " _Fine,_ but that's _little picture_ stuff."

The henchmen exchange a glance, and then, warily, the first one asks, "What's… the big picture, exactly?"

The Joker glances up at him. "What's the date?"

Henchman #1's brow creases. "December twenty-third."

"Uh-huh. Thought so. Soon to be the twenty-fourth. And that means…?"

He watches the goons expectantly. Henchman #1 looks down at the stock of his gun. Henchman #2 seems to find the far upper corner of the room very fascinating all of a sudden. The Joker gives them another few seconds to think about it, then blasts out an annoyed sigh and looks over his shoulder at me. "Em? Wanna play lifeline?"

I shift in my seat, sitting up straight at the sudden attention. It's hard to speak, and my voice is husky and stuck at a volume somewhere just above a whisper, but I make the effort. "Falcone said he was gonna kill you by Christmas, didn't he?"

The Joker nods approvingly. "Bingo," he says, returning his attention to his men. "He wants to be… a regular _holiday_ killer. Obviously, he'll fail, but why let him go on wallowing in his crippling _embarrassment?_ " He pauses a beat, and then, with a twitchy shrug, he adds, "All right, that'd be pretty funny, but with everything I've got on my plate… I'm not keen on the idea of letting him go hide, lick his wounds and plot revenge. Bad idea, bad idea. No—we're gonna take him out, and we're gonna do it on Christmas."

I frown, a sudden restless thought striking me, and painfully, I clear my throat. He glances back at me, and I say, "That's… a fine plan and all, but… it's almost Christmas Eve already. Don't you… think he's going to be getting kind of desperate to follow through on his promise?"

The Joker has exactly two seconds to narrow his eyes and look appraisingly at me before a loud crash sounds from the outside room and the gunfire starts.

He reacts immediately, as if he'd expected it—and hell, maybe he did; planning for all possible contingencies seems to be something he has a knack for. In a second, he's flipped the heavy table, and as he throws himself over it, I rocket out of my chair, moving reflexively to take cover as well. On my way to the impromptu barricade, I collide with Henchman #1, who's heading towards the door along with his colleague, and the impact sends me crashing to the floor. As I army-crawl towards the table, the thought strikes me that if the goons are choosing to move towards the conflict instead of taking cover, then maybe hiding with the Joker is not the wisest or safest move, but it's the only idea I've got, and in another second I've rolled behind the overturned table with him—just in time, it would seem, as the door bursts open and the sound of the gunfire roars up to a deafening pitch.

I try not to think about the fact that their guns might be powerful enough to blow through the metal of the table and focus instead on the Joker—his back's against the barricade, and he's shoving a clip into the semi-automatic he seems to favor when things start going south. He glances at me as if surprised to see me there, and as the first round of bullets rattles sharp and loud against the other side of the table, he thrusts his hand into his pocket and emerges with another pistol. He then does something that takes me completely by surprise—he shoves the gun into my hand and then seizes my shoulder, dragging me close so he can growl in my ear:

"Don't let 'em get around us, Em. Better the devil you _know_." He withdraws and is upright in a heartbeat, aiming his gun over the table and sending a spray of bullets into our attackers.

The adrenaline is pumping, my mind is moving fast, and it takes me only a second to weigh the situation. I could shoot him with ease, but it would not end there. I doubt these men will leave anyone alive, dead Joker or no. Even if they didn't shoot me, I'm hardly fool enough to think they'd just pat me on the head and send me on my way. No, the Joker's right. _Better the devil you know than the devil you don't._

And while I'm not exactly keen on the idea of putting my head outside of the barricade to shoot at the attackers, I also realize that if he gave me a gun, it means that he's anticipating that my help will be useful, if not outright necessary. Doubtless he'll taunt me about this later, my willingness to abandon morals and kill when I think I have to, but I'll just have to deal with that when it happens.

As he ducks back down, followed by a new blast of bullets raining against the table and lodging into the wood of the back wall above us, I take a deep breath and whip around the edge, staying low and trying to keep the exposed body parts limited to my head and hands.

The two henchmen are down, sprawled across the floor, and their bodies create a sort of impromptu barrier between the door and the room. Falcone's men have bottlenecked in the doorway in the confusion. They don't see me, and I open fire.

It takes me a couple of shots before I correct my aim, but the Mafioso in front doesn't seem to see me, and by the time he does, I've put a bullet in his torso. He falls convulsively forward, building the body-barricade higher, and as the guy behind him leaps over the bodies into the room, the Joker re-emerges and cuts him down fast.

Knowing that I have an advantage—the Joker's the target here; they'll be aiming for him over me—I take aim at the mass of legs and feet in the doorway and beyond, and if I miss every second shot, I'm heartened by the fact that the rest of my bullets hit knees, shins, feet, knocking them down into a tangled, bloody dogpile that only seems to heighten their confusion.

With the way I'm going, I run out of bullets fast, and just in time, I roll back behind the barrier—a rain of gunfire hits the floor where I was lying, at least one of the mob guys having wised up to my game.

The Joker's still up and firing, but true to his usual brand of nearly psychic foresight, he has a clip on the floor by his knee, and I snatch it up. It takes me an agonizingly long span of seconds to figure out how to eject the old magazine, but once it slides out and clatters to the floor, I shove the new one in and pop up again, just the top of my head and my hands peeking above the table.

The crowd at the doorway has diminished considerably, their tactical disadvantage doing far more damage than they must have anticipated, and though my bullets may have slowed them down and distracted them from their primary target, the Joker is the real force to be reckoned with, that gun of his mowing them down by the handful, without mercy. I focus on the fallen ones, the ones whose legs I may have shot out but who could still pose problems, and I try to make sure they won't be pulling themselves up and trying again, aiming for their heads, chests—whatever I can see.

And then, suddenly, the last man standing falls, and it's over. I think. It's hard to tell, what with my ears ringing from the deafening sound of gunfire and my heart pounding so hard that I'm not sure I'd be able to accurately discern whether anything's happening outside of this room, right _here,_ right now, but the shooting has stopped.

Before I can bring myself back down from it, a hand grabs the handle of my gun, and I tighten my grip immediately, reflexively, but the Joker is in no mood—he grabs me by the shoulder and shoves me to the floor as he rips the gun out of my hand.

Feeling dazed, I prop myself on my elbows, watching as he ejects the magazine and pushes a new one in. He's bleeding from somewhere around his hairline, a steady stream of blood cutting through the paint on his cheek and gathering along his jaw, but he barely seems to have noticed, so I gather that it isn't life-threatening.

After reloading the gun, he glances briefly at me, and I'm a bit startled by the look in his eyes—they're black and blazing and excited, but… something about them freezes me, gives me the sudden unwelcome impression that I'm looking at a long-dead thing. That's what ultimately brings me crashing down from the adrenaline high, and I instinctively recoil as he stoops down to peer into my face.

He doesn't comment on my flinching. He just says, impeccably calm, "Wait here." His voice is muffled by the high-pitched whine in my ears, but I understand, and I nod to show him.

He stands and moves around the table, and I slowly sit upright, edging to the bullet-ridden barricade and peeking up over it. He pauses at the tangled mess of bodies blocking the doorway, and looks down on them for a moment, head tilted curiously, before moving his head slightly and drilling a bullet into the skull of one of our former attackers. The bullet shell clinks to the floor; he adjusts his aim with the mere twitch of a hand and fires again, hitting a different skull this time, and then again, and again.

_He's not taking chances._ I realize as he finished with the boneless pile clustered in the doorway and steps over them into the outer room that he's going to double-tap each and every one of our adversaries, and I can't help but think: _good._ I'm not keen on some blood-blinded mob thug jumping back to life and mistakenly shooting me.

As he disappears from sight, I drop behind the barrier again, my back to the dented table, clutching my knees. It's no good trying to summon self-loathing for what I've just done; I won't find any. It could be because I have no opposition to killing in self-defense, or it could be that the Joker's been right all along and I'm just a big faker, saintly until the chips are down. I find I don't care much at the moment. Frankly, now that it's over, I don't care about anything, all that adrenaline draining away to leave a smooth, blank surface.

I listen to the muffled gunshots in the outer room, knowing that each one signals a certain death, and I just feel faintly relieved that I don't have to worry about outsiders attacking me.

After a moment, the shots stop. The ringing in my ears has subsided a bit, but the Joker's voice still sounds strange as he sings out, "Em, come on out here."

I get up, as I can't find the will to contemplate disobedience. Carefully, I pick my way through the room, pausing for a second at the dogpile of bodies in the doorway and the blood pooling out from the edges. Something tells me it'd be best not to leave a footprint, and so I step back and then spring forward, clearing the pile and landing hard in the room beyond.

The Joker is crouched over a body at the edge of the room- _no, not a body,_ I realize as the man's head rolls sideways and he coughs weakly. The room is full of dead, and I find a relatively bare spot of floor on which to stand, crossing my arms over my middle and watching.

The Joker taps the survivor on the cheek. "Funny situation, huh, Grumbles?"

Ah, so it's a minion. That explains why he doesn't have a bullet in his head. Grumbles coughs again and says, "Who's… left?"

"Ah… just _you._ Which strikes me as kind of _funny_." The Joker leans back, drawing his jacket open and searching in an inside pocket as he lets out a quick, barking laugh. "Not… _ha-ha_ funny. You see, I'm not quite sure how Falcone knew where we _were_."

Grumbles seems a little dazed, clearly already injured, but even so, he can't miss the dangerous note in his boss's voice. His eyes widen a bit, and he tries to drag himself backwards, away, but the Joker just grabs a fistful of his shirt and jerks him back into place. His hand comes free of his pocket bearing a gleaming blade, which he flicks up against Grumbles' cheek.

The goon knows better than to fight back. Instead, he starts to plead. "Look, boss, I don't… know what happened, I don't know how—they found us, but you gotta believe me, I didn't—"

The Joker laughs in his face, cutting him off. "I _gotta_? I don't have a _choice_?"

"No—no, I didn't mean—"

The Joker looks sharply back over his shoulder at me. "What do _you_ think, Em? Do I _gotta_?"

I stare back at him, shrugging dispassionately. "I don't care."

His forehead creases; he frowns in mock confusion. "Well, _that's_ not right. You _always_ care, Emma."

"No, I don't," I say sharply. When he doesn't respond, doesn't look away, I spread my hands. " _I_ get to decide when I care, okay? And right now, I _don't_. You said earlier, your goons are bad men. I _know_ Falcone's guys are bad, so as far as I'm concerned, you can all just kill each other. I'm sick and tired of trying to intervene."

" _Well,_ then," the Joker purrs, sounding like Christmas has come early. He snaps his head back around to Grumbles, who starts to panic.

"No—no! How do you know it wasn't _her_? Everyone's seen the news; we all know she's not with you because she _wants_ to be—"

" _Shhhh_ ," the Joker hisses, whipping the knife up and dragging it deep across the goon's forehead, and as Grumbles lets loose a bloodcurdling scream, he stands, pacing a few feet away, towards me. Grumbles drags himself upright, back against the wall, and as blood pours down into his eyes, the Joker arrives at my side and takes my hand.

"Just to, uh, _ease_ your _concerns_ ," he says clearly over the henchman's panicked, yelping gasps, "Emma here would _never_ sell me out to a crime-mongering little _weasel_ like Falcone, even if she had the chance—which she hasn't. I mean, look at her."

"I—I can't—see," chokes out Grumbles, trying to scrub the blood out of his eyes—a futile effort; it's pouring freely from the wide gash in his head and dripping thickly and constantly back down into them.

"Oh?" The Joker sounds disappointed, looking from Grumbles to me and back again, then shrugging. "Well, just take my word for it. She's an _angel._ Well," he adds as an afterthought, "maybe a _fallen_ angel, now, or _falling_ , but even so." His grip tightens on my hand; he lifts my arm, looking down the length of it at me, and I can't tell if what I'm seeing is some sort of twisted affection or it's just the look a fox gives the hen seconds before lunging forward and breaking her neck. His words certainly seem meant more for me than his frightened goon, low and warm as he says, "Turning me in to Falcone means she might _lose_ me, and she couldn't _handle_ that… could she?"

My lips part. I stare at him, feeling the deadness in my eyes, and my tone lacks vehemence as I tell him, "Your ego is _terrifyingly_ huge."

A wicked spark flashes in his eyes, and I can see half a dozen punchlines parading behind them, but he just drops my hand and returns to Grumbles, stooping down in front of him and prying his hands away from his face. "So," he continues, sounding almost kind, "you see, it _couldn't_ have been her. All the arrows point to you, unfortunately—the only survivor of this little… unpleasantness."

"I didn't," sobs Grumbles, trying to pull free of the Joker's grip, "I didn't do it, boss, I _swear_ I didn't…"

"Ohh, hush, now," says the Joker, leaning in close. "If it's any consolation, I _am_ in a hurry, so at least it'll be fast."

" _No_ —" Grumbles shrieks, tearing his hands away in a burst of panicked strength and grabbing for his gun, but the Joker catches his wrist, at the same time wedging his gloved fingers into the gash on his henchman's forehead, tearing tissue and sending fresh blood cascading down his face. Grumbles screams, locking up in pain, and in another second the Joker has seized his gun and put a bullet into his head. The blood and brains spatter the wall behind him, followed rapidly by his head, snapping back against the plaster and marring the spray. Even before he starts to slump, the Joker has dropped the gun and is rising to his feet.

"Come on," he says, glancing briefly at me and pulling a handkerchief from his pocket to clean the blood from his gloves. "We gotta go."

As I stare at what used to be Grumbles, a thought belatedly occurs to me. Quietly, I ask, "If he's the one who sold you out, then why was he here tonight?"

He doesn't answer me, so with difficulty, I pry my eyes from the body and focus on him. He's idly rubbing the cloth over his gloves, mouth turned slightly downward in concentration. I go on: "If he expected you to die, he'd know there wouldn't be any repercussions for _not_ showing up. Why would he come here knowing that he was just walking into a bloodbath, knowing that he could easily get caught in the crossfire?"

"He wouldn't," the Joker says genially, finishing his task and dropping the handkerchief to the floor. I watch it drift downwards, stained almost entirely red by Grumbles' blood, and then look back up at the Joker. He's watching me patiently, and once he's sure he's got my attention again, he says, "Time to go."

I still feel the strange calm, and I shake my head. "No."

The Joker tilts his head, looking faintly skeptical, like he's not sure he heard me. " _No_?"

"You go on, if you want to, but I'm staying here."

The disbelieving look shifts to a decidedly more dangerous one, and in three quick strides, he's reached me, standing in front of me but not touching me even as he thrusts his head down and forward into my personal space—and still, I don't recoil. "Listen… ah, _Em._ I know the first shootout can be hard. Hmm? It's not that I don't _understand_ —but believe me," he adds, reaching up idly to clutch at my chin, making damn sure that I'm paying attention, "after all that noise, things are about to get a _lot_ livelier around here, and we need to _leave_ before that happens. I mean, I'm not asking you to just _get over_ it." He pauses, and then shrugs. "Actually, I'm not _asking_ you at all. We're going now."

He steps away, taking my wrist as he goes. I take a deep breath and plant my feet.

Naturally, he doesn't get far before my arm locks up, and the force of his pull tips me forward a bit, but I more or less remain braced in place. He pauses for a second before spinning around and coming back towards me. I get roughly a half-second in which to register that he has no intention of stopping in front of me before his hand closes over my throat and he's driving me back, and I can either move backwards with the force of him or allow him to knock me down again. The memory of the last time I was on my back with his hands around my throat is uncomfortably near, and so I find myself moving quickly back as he pushes, crossing the room in a matter of seconds. I hit the wall hard and he takes one more step forward, leaving an inch or two between us but effectively hemming me in.

His hand at my throat squeezes, and I hiss as the pressure pulls a flare of pain from the injured flesh, but he doesn't take the time to revel in it. His face eats up my vision, lips hitched back, and he snarls, "Ap _par_ ently _,_ you've got the wrong idea. Stop me if I'm wrong, but… you seem to believe that, uh, what—that I've got some kind of _investment_ in your life; that for some reason, I won't _kill_ you."

Something cold slips beneath the hem of my shirt, and I don't have time to wonder before a sharp edge is pushing against my stomach, just above the navel, rough, serrated by the feel of it, not cutting but still painful.

The Joker tilts his head closer, and his eyes are burning with that deathly light again. "And _sure,_ at the momen _t_ , keeping you _alive_ makes the game more interesting. It gives our _hero_ something to fight for." His eyelids flutter, half-closing in what looks like a spasm of pleasure, and suddenly the blade digs into my skin, cutting upwards in a sharp line of fire, and I yelp at the pain. The hand around my throat shoots up to press hard instead against my mouth, shoving my lips painfully against my teeth.

"But don't think," he continues calmly, "not for one _second_ , that I won't just _gut_ you here instead. You know, a martyr can be _just_ as good a cause as a _distressed damsel_." To prove his point, he twists the blade a little, cutting deeper, not yet stabbing but certainly threatening.

"It's the season of giving, though, so I'll be, um, generous… and give you the choice. You can stop _fussing,_ stop arguing, and obey me _fully_ from now on—or I can cut you open and yank out all yer little entrails right here and now, _squish-splash_ , and leave you for the _hero_ to find."

I feel sick. For all my resistance, both active and passive, for all of my former surety that my death at this point in the game would be a loss for him and therefore somehow worth it… when faced with the reality of the choice, I'm not brave enough to let him just end it here. Maybe it's the gruesomeness of the painful death he's describing, maybe it's the reality of the blood welling up at the fresh wound in my stomach, but I can't bring myself to let go.

His hand is still at my mouth, so I drop my eyes and just nod the best I can, defeated. The knife travels back down again, deepening the cut, and a whimper sounds from high in my throat, without my permission. When I look up again, his face has taken on a new expression, watery-eyed and inscrutable, and I think _he isn't actually giving me a choice; he's going to open me up and leave me here no matter what._

Then, his head twitches just a bit, as though he's shaking off a fog. The blade lifts from my stomach, and I hear a wet click as he folds the knife shut. "Come on," he mutters, and his hand leaves my mouth to grab my wrist. He turns away and I follow him without resistance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My sincerest apologies for going without updating for nearly a month; it won't happen again. We're exploding into Act III here, so buckle up and prepare for more bad behavior and an increasingly dangerous spiral towards violence and instability as Emma and the Joker work to make sure Christmas arrives right on time for Alberto Falcone. Thank you to everyone who left kudos!


	13. Chapter 13

We burst outdoors to the sound of sirens, but my calm holds. The police always seem to arrive at the scene just one minute too late; why should this time be any different?

The Joker hustles down the street, dragging me behind him. His head is bobbing above his shoulders, twisting occasionally to show a flash of wildly-rolling eye—he's looking for something. After a moment of this, he hums "Mm- _hmm_ " and jerks me towards a black car with heavily tinted windows. I have no choice but to follow, but I do so doubtfully—does he really have time to pick the lock, with police only a few streets away from the sound of it?

My concerns are addressed indirectly when he pulls on the passenger-side door handle and the door comes smoothly open. His hand leaves my wrist, flicking up to my shoulder, and as he shoves me inside I can feel the impartiality of the touch—for the moment, at least, I'm nothing more than chattel to him, which makes me believe even more that he meant every word of his little diatribe inside. My foot is barely clear of the door before he slams it shut, and as he moves swiftly around the front, I wonder vaguely _who leaves a nice car like this unlocked in the ghetto?_

The answer comes to me quickly enough, informed by the tint of the windows and the memory of our unexpected visitors— _mob guys, of course._ It's exactly the kind of arrogance one would expect from the criminals who believe they run this town.

_Still, they're not cocky enough to leave the keys in the ignition_ I note as the Joker thuds into the driver's seat beside me. He slams the door and then hunches forward, groping beneath the dashboard. I crane my neck, vaguely interested despite myself, but I can't see what he's doing with his hands, can only hear a rough clatter, then some snapping. He re-emerges with a handful of wires. He touches two together, they crackle, and then the car hums to life. Abandoning the wires, he puts the car in gear and swerves away from the curb, twisting the wheel to take us down the nearest cross-street.

For the next few minutes, he weaves his way along a dizzying path, going up another block then turning sharply again, repeating the deviations with a leaden foot until I start to feel slightly sick and decide that I should avoid looking out of the window until the nausea subsides. I turn my attention instead to securing my seatbelt. The lap belt brushes against my stomach, drawing my attention to the stinging cut I've all but forgotten in the adrenaline rush of escape, and I'm a little startled to see that a large part of my shirt front is stained with blood.

I adjust the lap belt so that it rests over my thighs and lower stomach, and, trying to ignore the sickening lurch of the car as it twists back and forth, I gingerly peel my shirt up to examine the fresh wound. The fabric has served to smear blood across the skin of my stomach, but it isn't difficult to identify the cut running from my navel halfway up to my chest, not particularly deep, but nasty. The bright well of blood obscures the surrounding flesh, but I imagine that if it were clean, the edges of the wound would be visibly jagged. I wish for a wet cloth and a bandage, something to hide the evidence of the gash and the threat it represents, but the wish is futile.

I suddenly feel foolish, like a child examining in wonder the bare gum from which its first baby tooth has fallen, and I roll my sticky shirt down again, trying not to wince as the damp cloth scrapes against the cut. There's nothing I can do about it at the moment. The injury looks messy, but I'm not in danger of bleeding out, and worrying about infection seems ridiculous since I'm far from certain that I'll be alive long enough for infection to set in.

In the meantime, the Joker has straightened out the car, putting us on a relatively steady path, and I feel safe enough to glance up again. I can still hear the sirens, but they're distant, posing little immediate threat. He is taking no notice whatsoever of me, peering sharply out of the windshield, and my staring effects no change. For a strange span of seconds, I find myself fantasizing about drawing the knife out of my pocket and putting it through his throat, or at least lunging over to give him a wound to match mine, but even as I daydream about it, I know I won't do anything. How many chances have I had to kill or maim him? How many times have I stopped at just imagining it?

For some reason, I feel the urge to get his attention. Buzzing in his ear for no reason isn't likely to get a good result, and I'm wary of provoking him in light of what just happened, but fortunately, my mind lands on a question I think is fair to ask.

"What did that henchman mean when he said that… they all know I'm not with you of my own free will?"

He glances distractedly at me, double-taking as if he's forgotten that I'm here. His gaze doesn't linger, returning to the street ahead, and he doesn't answer me.

I press on anyway. "He said they'd all seen the video. And _you_ … you keep talking about a _hero_ wanting to save me—Batman, right? How do you know he even knows I'm gone?"

"Ahh, come on, he's too much of a _busybody_ to keep his pointy nose _out_ ," he mutters, half to himself.

"No, but Grumbles," I argue. "He said, ' _we_ all saw it.'" He doesn't even grace me with a glance this time, and, putting the pieces together reluctantly, I say, "You made one of your… home videos and sent it to the news, didn't you?" My eyes dart, unseeing, back and forth as I make the pieces fit. _I was asleep for a while last night, and he was the one to wake me up. I don't know how I could have slept through it, but then again, I've been sleeping unusually heavily lately._

Shifting sideways, wincing as the skin of my stomach twists and stretches a bit, I fix him with a steady scowl and ask, "Did you make me bait for Batman?" No answer, but I don't really get the sense that he's pointedly ignoring me so much as just genuinely uninterested in what I'm asking. "You did, didn't you? You challenged him to come find me."

He twists the wheel abruptly to the left, hard, and the g-force presses me against the passenger door for a few seconds. As he straightens us out again, he bites out, "If you've got everything _aaalll_ figured out, then why're you asking _me_?"

"I _haven't_ figured everything out," I say, not bothering to straighten myself from where my back has landed against the door, since this position affords me a better view of him, anyway. "In fact, I feel like I'm just barely stumbling along here in the dark with what little I _do_ know. I'm a really curious person, okay? You _know_ that about me. If I don't have answers, I'm going to constantly be guessing. And maybe you're okay with that, and maybe you're keeping me in the dark because you think it's funny to watch me flounder, I don't know. I'm not trying to piss you off, but I ask questions when I don't know what's going on. Again, you _know_ that."

Speaking before I'm quite finished, his voice carrying over mine, he says, "You can watch the tape, if you want. Though, uh, I wouldn't hold out much hope for having all yer _questions_ answered."

His easy acquiescence takes me off-guard, and I fall silent at once, thinking this over. If he doesn't mind showing me, then I'm not sure anymore that I really want to see it. It's not just the contrarian in me, either—over time, I've come to understand that whenever possible, if I express a desire for something, he will withhold it. For him to make an exception means that the sacrifice of giving me what I want is outweighed by the _satisfaction_ of giving me what I want, which means that what I want will be… unsettling, probably, to say the least.

Still, I'm not going to back down now, and part of me wants him to know that—though I am absolutely not interested in picking a fight right now. It hardly seems to matter, anyway. Quietly, I say, "I'd appreciate that."

He glances sideways at me, mouth pulled up in a weird crooked half-smile. He's laughing at me, like he always does, for my effort at politeness, but I'm too beaten and worn out to care much. Still, I'm alive, and as long as I am alive I don't think I'll ever be capable of refraining from mouthing off to him, whether my heart is in it or not, so, folding my arms across my chest and sinking wearily down into my seat, I mutter, "Fuck off, I was raised to be polite. It's instinct no matter who's on the receiving end."

"You wanna get rid of that habit," he advises me generously. "People'll take _advantage_ of you."

I release a short bark of laughter. "Thanks. I'll keep that in mind."

He nods, but there's an absent-mindedness about it, as if I've turned back into something inanimate in his eyes, a hunk of stone. I find myself idly wondering if he ever has conversations with inanimate objects, guns or knives, and I hold back a snort at the thought, realizing that I'm long overdue for some rest. While it's true that I've been sleeping probably ten hours a night since this all began—much more than my typical restless six—I've also sustained much more injury, blood loss, and stress than is typical for a usual day, which wears one out a lot more quickly than you'd think.

I shoot a quick, envious look at the Joker, wondering how he does it. Is he just so accustomed to the hectic life that he isn't drained by it anymore, if he ever was? I remember, the first day I met him, a henchman telling me that his habit was to go without sleep for six days in a row.

I don't know how true that is, especially for time when trouble is simmering rather than boiling—I've already seen him sleep twice, and I've only been in his company for somewhere around forty-eight hours, though it feels like much longer. A thought suggests itself that this might be due to my presence, but I dismiss the idea, as much for the fact that it's a frightening thought as that it seems unlikely.

_I'm getting nowhere, and this train of thought is bordering on delirium,_ I think crankily, and shut my eyes. I'm not afraid to doze a little, not right now. While we're in this car, at least, I don't think I'm in any real danger. Unless, of course, he thinks it'll be funny to slam on the brakes and send my head crashing into the dashboard, but I think I'll take my chances.

I doze fitfully, unable to get comfortable with the combination of stinging aches and the cramped sitting position. I get a few minutes' sleep here and there, and he doesn't seem to mind, if he even notices. I imagine it gives him some time to get his head together and start laying groundwork for his next move without me chattering at him.

Eventually, though, I give up on the idea of sleep, opening my eyes and sitting up with a sigh. It doesn't take me long to realize that I recognize this area of the city.

My head whips around and I regard the Joker with huge eyes. "This is Cathedral Square."

"You should be a tour guide," he comments without missing a beat.

Ignoring the quip, I say, " _Please_ don't tell me we're going to my apartment."

There's a few seconds' silence, and then, face scrunched up and head tilted slightly, he asks, "Well, do you want me to tell you the _truth,_ or—?"

I groan, throwing my head back against the rest. "Seriously? _Why_?!"

He pauses as though taken aback by the question, and then, finally, he asks, "Well… why not?"

"You don't think that people will come looking there?"

"Do _you_?" he counters instantly.

I frown, studying him. "That depends," I say reluctantly. "How many people saw that mysterious video we talked about?"

"Oh, I think it's safe to say the whole _city's_ seen that video by now." I throw my hand out, palm-up, indicating that he's made my point for me. He glances at me out of the corner of his eye and then chuckles low in his throat. "Settle down, Em. They might have checked your place for evidence earlier… but I doubt it. The cops aren't too keen on _saving_ you. Not if it means coming up against _me_."

I muster a snort at his usual cockiness; he doesn't seem to notice. "And even if they _were_ there… they won't have stuck _around_. No, they're pretty eager to leave this one to the _Bat_ -man."

"Okay, well, fine," I acquiesce, deciding not to ask how he knows for sure (it's unlikely he'll answer, anyway), "but how do you know _he_ won't show up?"

"If I know our hero," he murmurs, glancing up through the windshield at the black sky as if expecting to catch a glimpse of his adversary right now, "—and I _do_ —he's already come and gone, uh, _several_ times."

"And you're not worried he'll come back while we're camped out there?"

"Not really," he remarks flippantly. I stare at him, and after a moment of this, he yields slightly. "He's gonna have his _hands_ tied for a little while tryin' to figure out what's going on with Falcone—and, well, ultimately, he's not gonna expect me to take you _home_."

"No, I guess not," I admit softly. If the Joker really did call out Batman publicly over my kidnapping, then taking me back home is the _last_ move Batman will expect.

_Okay, it's a decent idea,_ I admit begrudgingly to myself, sinking further down into my seat—and, perhaps belatedly, I realize that arguing with the Joker isn't necessarily in my best interest, anyway. Sure, if the police and/or Batman _are_ there, I'm probably looking at a throat-cutting—but in the more likely event that they haven't wasted police muscle by staking out my apartment, I'm instead looking at a hot shower, a full change of clothes (clothes that actually _belong_ to me), a first aid kit, food, and possibly some rest in _my_ bed.

Suddenly, I find myself hoping that we'll find my apartment empty and the streets outside clear.

When we finally reach my street, he slows the car to a crawl, not slow enough to look suspicious, but checking, searching for evidence of a police presence. I don't see one, and if he does, he doesn't indicate it. There are no police cars, there's no visible crime scene tape—the only suspicious vehicle on the street belongs to us.

Eager to get back home, even if it's under his rule and temporary, I turn to him and say, "If you need somewhere to drop the car, there's a parking lot one block south of here, no attendants, the mechanical kind. It's usually pretty full, I don't think anyone would… notice…"

I falter as he turns his black eyes on me. My sudden helpfulness must seem suspicious to him. I tell him the truth as quickly as possible: "Well, I mean, now that I think about it, I'd be… okay with stopping by my place for a while." I'm careful not to sound too eager, lest he decides that he'd rather put up somewhere else out of sheer spite.

He doesn't answer, but keeps the car on its course, and when we come upon the parking lot I mentioned, he casually, almost deliberately directs the car through the gate. I try not to be too obvious about my relief as he snatches a ticket from the dispenser and finds a spot near the back.

The lot is empty of people and unlit, relying on glimmers of light from the surrounding streets for illumination—never mind security. For maybe the first time, I'm grateful that my neighborhood, like most upper-class areas of Gotham, is not strictly _safe_. I've long since come to terms with the fact that the Joker being discovered by police or anybody inclined to rat him out _to_ the police is _not_ a good thing, at least not as long as I'm in his power. If I can sneak him into my apartment without anyone noticing… that'd be for the best.

I shoot him a furtive sideways glance as we come to a stop, but he seems lost in thought, pocketing the keys as he gets out of the car. I follow suit, frowning. Since explaining just why my apartment would be an adequate hiding place, he hasn't really spoken that much. By the time I circle around the car, he's already striding through the parking lot, as if he's forgotten me.

Seeing this, I pause belatedly, and temptation creeps in. _Would he really notice at this point? If I just left, would he even care? He's clearly got his own thing going by now, something much bigger than his game with me. If I bailed, it might even be a relief to him, not to have to deal with me anymore, whether or not he's willing to admit it._

I begin to edge back around the car again, thinking seriously about making a break for it. Without appearing to glance around or break his swaying stride, he tilts his head slightly to the side and barks out harshly, " _Emma_!"

_Right._ My resolve fails me immediately as I feel the ghost of his grip tightening upon me again. I run to catch up to him, and he shoots me an irritated glance as I move into place beside him.

Since honesty usually yields good results with him (as long as it doesn't verge into disrespect), I make no secret of my slightly-displeased confusion. "What's going on?"

He maintains his uncharacteristic silence, eyes crawling from side to side as he checks out the lot and the street beyond for potential threats. He may as well not have heard me, but I'm not willing to let it rest. Fear dies away fast when you've experienced it as intensely and as often as I have over the last long span of hours, so despite the serious scare of earlier, I find myself asking, "Are you mad at me?"

I don't really think he is—I don't think he really bothers with petty things like grudges. Still, I'd like a response from him, and I think that question will get one, even if it's not exactly a pleasant one—anything short of a stabbing, I think I can handle.

Of course, as usual, his reaction is not at all what I'm expecting. He shoots me a flickering glance, and then his hand slips down and grips mine, hot and rough and dry. This isn't the usual commanding death grip, though; he actually laces his fingers through mine and gives me a squeeze that I suppose is meant to be comforting. His lips part, and finally, he speaks. "Shh," he says absently. "No, no, I'm not mad. Thinking. Shh."

Every now and again, he'll do or say something that is so weirdly _normal_ that I have no clue how to respond. Now is _definitely_ one of those times, and so, thoroughly subdued, I let him hold my hand, my own fingers tightening instinctively in response to his, and we continue towards my building that way, keeping to the shadows and back-alleys. I find myself tugging on his hand as often as he pulls on mine—we're navigating a dark maze of backroads, and he's got a good sense of direction, but I'm more familiar with the area. Between us, we puzzle our way to the side of my building in good time.

He lets my hand go as we approach the fire escape, and I glance around quickly to see if anyone's watching us, but the alley's empty and the windows studding the side of the opposite building are all dark. _Good._ The ladder is within easy reach for him—the bottom rung is at his eye level; he should have no problem reaching up and pulling it down, but instead he reaches down towards my waist, gripping it as though he intends to lift me.

"Whoa, whoa," I say, slipping startled hands onto his shoulders for stability as I plant my feet and look up at him. "Why don't you—"

"The ladder's stuck," he says laconically, tightening his grip. "C'mon." I realize belatedly that he must have come this way at the start of the whole mess, and my mouth is twisting wryly at this realization as he hoists me up. I quickly refocus, grabbing the ladder and pulling myself onto the platform with his help.

I twist around as soon as I'm secure, just in time to see him take a strong leap and clear the bottom rungs, grabbing hold of the icy platform directly. For a second, I get another flash of temptation—I could smash his fingers, or get my knife and cut a few of them off, but I dismiss the idea as foolhardy and move instead to help.

He doesn't seem to need much assistance, climbing up quickly and nimbly, but I still grab him beneath the shoulder and help hoist him to relative safety. He gets his foot caught on a rung, though, and surges forward unexpectedly, knocking me back into the guard rail. He narrowly avoids crushing me flat, instead ending up sprawled over my legs. The ridiculousness of it makes me laugh wearily, and instead of getting up right away, he rolls onto his back. I think I catch a glimpse of a grin.

I stop laughing. While it would be a bald-faced lie to say I haven't come to enjoy these rare chummy moments, even crave them when the going gets rough(er), I've learned not to trust them. I'm not saying he overcompensates in meanness for them later, but… well, the pendulum always eventually swings back, and with him, it seems to happen sooner rather than later.

He languidly lifts his legs from mine and gets up, the escape creaking under the shift of weight. Doing nothing so gentlemanly as to offer me a hand, he points instead to the next ladder. "You first."

Keeping my silence, I get up, squeezing past him and hoisting myself up. As I start climbing I almost say _don't look at my ass,_ but I catch myself just in time. _What's wrong with you? You're still_ _ **bleeding**_ _because of him, still reeling from the very serious death threat, and you're thinking about flirting?_

I chalk it up as a defense mechanism, because right now, I'm too tired to face the sharply divided nature of my feelings for— _about_ him. _I'll think about it later,_ I promise myself. Right now, all I want is the security of my home, however temporary it may prove to be.

We climb in silence until we reach my broken window. He left it unlocked, and after peering inside to see if I can register a human presence, I slowly slide it open.

_So far, so good._ The slight noise doesn't seem to disturb anything—or any _one_ —that might be lurking in the shadows, so I carefully climb in, landing lightly on the floor of my kitchen.

The Joker follows right away, having a little more difficulty squeezing through the small space, and I move aside quickly as his feet hit the floor and he maneuvers the rest of his body inside. Immediately, he produces a gun, and his hand curls around my shoulder, positioning me in front of him. _Great. Now I get to play human shield._ I'm not reckless enough to say anything, but I roll my eyes as he begins to steer me forward.

Meticulously, we search the place, and find—nothing. I'm a little surprised despite myself. There's no evidence that the police were here at all, not that I necessarily know what to look for. Still, I find myself growing increasingly resentful. The Joker said they would leave this one to Batman, but still—they didn't even put in a token effort? _What the hell?_

My annoyance fades soon enough. Like the Joker said, no one wants to be in his line of fire, and what's another endangered-soon-to-be-dead girl in Gotham, really? I'm too tired to stay mad.

After we've searched the place thoroughly, the Joker puts the gun away and then grabs my other shoulder and spins me around. I'm startled when he ducks his head to peer into my eyes, looking serious, which is unsettling, to say the least. "How many of your neighbors know you?"

I blink, startled. "My—neighbors?"

"Upstairs, downstairs—how many of 'em?"

"N-none."

He looks unconvinced. I find myself scowling, and I try to shrug his hands away, but they stay put. "Look, you _know that_. You're always rubbing my tendency towards reclusiveness in my face. I don't do the friendly neighbors thing, and anyway, this is _Gotham._ If you're worried about someone blowing the whistle because they see lights or hear footsteps… I honestly doubt they'll realize or care that we're here."

Behind his lips, he runs his tongue over his top teeth, and finally, he nods. "Good." He releases my shoulders and turns away. I watch him for a second as he shrugs out of his heavy coat, and with the entitlement I've come to expect of him, he pulls the refrigerator open and bends to inspect the contents, laying his arm along the top. This reminds me that I haven't eaten since the pizza last night, but curiously enough, my stomach doesn't ache.

I recognize this as a bad sign, and probably part of why I've been feeling so tired so quickly. I promise myself I'll eat something later, but right now, I just want a hot shower and some bandages. "I—" I catch myself before I ask him for permission. _After all, this is my house._ A bit more boldly, I say, "I'm gonna go… shower and bandage up."

He glances swiftly at me out of the corner of his eye before returning his gaze to the fridge. "That so?"

_Ugh_. I try not to glare at him, but it's hard—he _would_ take the opportunity to remind me that, my apartment or not, I have no real power here. If he doesn't want me to clean off and patch up, then tough luck, I'm not doing a damn thing. Ratcheting up the sarcasm in my tone in order to assume some of the power I know I don't have, I ask, "Is that okay with you?"

" _I_ was just wondering if you meant it as an _invitation_ ," he says idly, his head disappearing into the fridge.

I don't dare to reply—I scurry out of the kitchen as quickly as I can without drawing attention. He doesn't follow.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...I think at some point this story evolved into an anti-buddy-road-trip comedy.
> 
> Oh, well. I can live with that.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warnings for suicidal thoughts and behavior as well as some potentially disturbing dialogue for this chapter. Please be cautious.

I leave the bedroom door ajar—with the exception of the bathroom, I get the feeling that he takes a closed door as a challenge. Before closing myself up in the bathroom, I pull out some fresh clothes—the jeans are easy, black and tight so I'll have an easy time running, but the shirt is a little harder. _I know he likes green, so I'll be damned if I wear it willingly for him. He'll read purple as a declaration of loyalty or—belonging, and red seems inappropriate, somehow. White shows bloodstains. Black with the jeans will swallow me up._

I realize after a minute that I've been standing in front of my closet for an embarrassing span of minutes, and, annoyed with myself, I grab a fuzzy v-necked thing, dark gray and blue-striped, gather everything into my arms, and lock myself into the bathroom. I feel foolish, putting so much thought into clothing, but the simple truth of the matter is that one has to put a good deal of thought into tiny details when dealing with the Joker—he doesn't miss much, and has the maddening tendency to read meaning in every little choice.

I undress, thankfully shedding my old clothes—brand new or not, they're a little funky after two days wearing them, and bloodstained to boot. I ball them up and shove them into a hamper, and then I turn on the water. As it heats up, I unwind the bandage from my arm, wincing at the sight of the raw flesh knitting itself clumsily back together. This shower, as welcome as it is, is going to hurt.

Soon, steam is rising from the falling water, and, too conscious of the open and near-open wounds on my head, stomach, and arm, I step gingerly under the stream. The sting of water is sharp and immediate, and I grit my teeth and duck my head, watching the water turn pink around my feet. After a while, though, it runs clear, and slowly, the pain begins to fade—including the many aches and bruises accumulated through days of dangerous living—as the hot water soothes sore muscles and tender flesh.

I put my body on autopilot, scrubbing myself clean and washing my hair as I set my mind free to think.

Something about bathing has always profoundly depressed me. Maybe it's the unnatural light, maybe it's the fact that I'm locked in a small room alone with no real mental occupation, but I never seem to be able to think positively in the shower. To be fair, of course, there's not a lot to be positive _about._ It seems like the more I struggle to free myself from the Joker's clutches, the more entrapped I become. Once again, perhaps as a result of my fragile state, my mind turns to the incident earlier in the night, where I nearly got myself strangled. I press my head against the wall as I recall the sensation of defiant relief that swept through me the second I realized I was probably going to die right there.

Suddenly, I feel both very old and very tired. These last few days have felt like weeks, weeks of pain and stress and hunger and interminable fatigue, and I find myself wondering why I didn't just let him gut me after the shootout.

Lazily, as the hot water courses down my back, I drift towards some sort of understanding. I'm stubborn, I'm contrary, and if the Joker offers me a choice— _live or die_ —I'm going to choose _live_ out of sheer rebellion.

It doesn't, however, mean that I actually want to _stay alive_.

I stand there for a moment, brain curiously blank, after that thought crosses my mind. I just absorb it, and then, as it finally starts to sink in, my thoughts begin to churn again. Maybe it's the weariness talking, but I've just about had it. I want to be free of him. I just want to _rest_. And dying might be the only way to do that.

It certainly seems inevitable. Everything he's said points to me being dead when this is all over, and right now, it just seems to be a question of sooner or later, by my hand or his.

_But do I really want to die?_

I raise my head and stare through the streams of water pouring down over my face. I'm not particularly _excited_ about it, but I have to accept the fact that any living future I might have looks increasingly bleak. If the Joker does what he did last time and changes his mind at the very last moment (and I don't really see that happening; he doesn't seem too keen on telling the same joke twice), I'll still have to live with his shadow hanging over me, never knowing when he'll pounce again, or even _if_ he'll pounce—he might think it's funnier just to leave the threat looming and watch me worry myself into an early grave.

I snort, sending beads of water flying. _No, thank you._ Right now, I am sick, tired, and _definitely_ not up to the future I see laid out before me.

Killing myself always seemed… well, not cowardly, per se, but I never could summon the energy or effort to go through with it, especially not in my period of emotional lethargy between Joker encounters. Even now, thinking about the knife in the back pocket of my discarded jeans, the idea of opening the arteries in my wrist and lying beneath the stream of water, letting the red wash down the drain is… remarkably unsatisfying. As tired and frustrated as I am, I still don't think I can do it.

A thought begins to take vague shape in my mind, and I slowly turn around to let the water hit my back. I stand there for a long time, staring at the tiling directly in front of me, and I think, so slowly and calmly that I feel practically drugged.

Finally, the water starts to cool, and I pull myself from the trancelike state with a jolt. Still moving with dreamlike slowness, I get out of the shower, wrapping my hair in a towel and following suit, more gently, with my battered body. The hot water totally sapped my strength to the point that I have to sit on the closed toilet as I air-dry, which oddly makes me more certain of the plan that has formed in my head, of what I need to do next.

When I finally stand again, hair still damp but body dry, my limbs are trembling, but I don't think it's from fear so much as bone-weariness, what energy I had left drained from me by the hot water. Shakily, I discard my towel and find the first aid kit beneath the sink so I can start binding up the wounds. Again, the arm is tricky, but the stomach is easier—I tape a pad of gauze to the cut, which is slimmer than it initially felt now that all the blood has been washed away—still ugly, but not dangerous. The last injury is the fresh cut on my cheek from where the Joker struck me with the metal edge of the detonator in the van. The skin around it is turning blue, but the cut has stopped bleeding, so I just carefully dab it with cold water and then leave it alone.

The rest of the injuries are just bloodless scrapes and bruises, and so I dress slowly in the clothes I picked out, though the color hardly seems to matter now. _Funny how much things can change in less than an hour._

I leave the bathroom, leaving the light on and the door open in lieu of turning on the brighter, harsher bedroom light, and I go and sit at the foot of the bed. Despite how tired I am, I'm not tempted to sleep. I just sit up straight and wait.

He must have heard me moving around, because it isn't long before I hear the floorboards creaking in the short hallway connecting the kitchen-living space to the bedroom-bathroom, and then a shadow appears in the crack of the slightly-open door.

I watch, certain that he's about to come in, but though the shadow hovers for a second, features indiscernible due to the faint light behind it, it soon falls back, the footsteps fading. I don't know how long I can stick to my resolution, so I sit up a little, calling after him. "Hey!"

The creaking stops, but the shadow doesn't return. My voice is hoarse again, an hour's disuse returning it to the state it had been in right after the attack, but I try to project it anyway: "Can you—can you come in here for a second?"

There's no response or movement from the hall, and I can practically hear him weighing his curiosity against his devilish enjoyment of refusing to give me his attention when I want it. I clear my throat, but it only serves to make my voice sound even more pitiful as I say, "I need—I want to ask you something."

Maybe it's curiosity, or maybe the quiet weakness of my voice is simply irresistible to him. The footsteps draw near again, the door swings silently open, and he stands still in the doorway, shoulders hunched and head tilted slightly to the side. I don't speak right away, instead scooting sideways on the foot of the bed.

It might be my imagination, but he seems wary, eyes rolling to their corners to watch me as he crosses the room. He dusts off the spot on the bed beside me, straightening his purple pinstriped pants and hitching the cuffs free of his shoes as he settles down next to me, heels together and knees apart. He's taken time to clean the blood from his face, but he hasn't concerned himself with bandages, leaving the wound open and clean. I can see a bit of roughness beneath the paint along his jaw and realize that he's going to need to shave soon.

As always, evidence that he is, in fact, human leaves me with a faint sense of wonder, and suddenly—irrationally—I feel… shy. Embarrassed, almost. I duck my head, damp tendrils of hair spilling down across my neck, and I half expect him to impose himself into my personal space and brush them aside—that or give me one of his characteristic hisses signaling impatience with my faltering.

He doesn't, though. He's perfectly silent and perfectly still, and I'm annoyed with myself for letting tedious anxiety get to me this late in the game— _now,_ of all times, when it doesn't matter at all.

Still, despite my total awareness that it _doesn't_ matter, I know I'm not going to be able to do this while looking at him. Encouraging myself silently— _come on, what can he do that's worse than what you're about to ask him, anyway_ —I manage to summon a small bit of courage, my exhausted body's final effort to help me do what has to be done.

Keeping my head down, not daring to look into his face, I turn slightly and put an arm around his back, then another across his chest, locking my hands together beneath his opposite arm, which—surprise, surprise—he lifts in order to accommodate me, though he still says nothing (waiting patiently, I suppose, to see where this is headed). I press my forehead against his shoulder, where the lilac fabric of his shirt disappears beneath the vibrant green vest, and for a second, I let myself indulge in this, one final gift to myself, for once unmarred by the fear that he'll twist around and stick a blade in my spine.

I'm so tired that I'm tempted to just let this be it, to sit here until he shoves me off and then crawl to the head of the bed, curl up, and wait to die. Fortunately, though, he speaks, sounding completely normal despite my unusual move. "Ah. Is this _it_? You wanted me to come in and _cuddle_?"

 _God bless his meanness._ The mockery in his tone reminds me of the future I don't want, and I draw a breath, lifting my chin and resting it atop his shoulder, though I still keep my eyes steadily down, studying his shirt. There are swirling patterns on it that I didn't see before, due to their being almost identical in color to the shirt, only a bit bluer. Quietly, mindful of his ear only an inch or two away, I tell him, "I want you to do it."

Silence. It stretches out for a few seconds that I would find uncomfortable if I had the energy or inclination to care anymore, and then he says, "Ahh. Do _what_ , Em?"

Oh, good. He's not going to make this easy for me. I fight off the urge to just give up, go to sleep, and wait for him to set his own plans in motion. I don't _want_ to wait; waiting is half of the horror of it. _More_ than half, really. It takes me another moment to repeat myself, and I find myself biting the inside of my cheek, hard, until I taste copper. The taste of blood prompts me to instinctively relax my jaw, and, keeping my voice as level as possible—though it's harder when I literally don't have physical control over it—I say, "I'm ready now. I want you to kill me."

I might feel his breath hitch, although that could just as easily be my unsteady arms, which have started shaking again with the mere effort of holding on to him. I feel his shoulder shift as he turns his head to look at me, but I stubbornly keep my eyes down. I may have found the courage somewhere to ask him that, but I don't think I'll be able to hold on to it if I see it coming.

In a voice atypically clear and free of embellishment, he says, "I might believe you a little more if you actually look me in the _face_ and say that, Em."

 _Not going to make this easy for me, indeed._ I'm so tired, but I know that I have to comply with his wishes if there's even a chance of him obliging me, so slowly, mid-blink, I roll my eyes up. By the time my lids sweep back open, I'm staring into his face, and after waiting a beat to give it a little more strength, I say again, clearly: "I want you to kill me."

He stares at me without blinking for a second, and I can't tell if he's breathing. The tip of his tongue creeps out from his painted mouth, running slowly and meditatively along his upper lip before disappearing back inside, and then he blinks once, twice, rapidly. Matter-of-factly, he asks, "How do you want me to do it?"

Now that I'm looking at his face, I search for any tells that might give me an idea of what he's thinking, but I can't find a damn thing. He's just watching me, eyebrows lifted patiently, and I would scoff if I had any energy to spare for scorn. _Bastard is testing me. He wants me to prove that I mean it._

Lifting my chin slightly away from his shoulder, I say, "Gunshot to the head would be my preference, though I figure that's probably not your style in cases like mine."

He pulls a face of sympathetic pain, the smudged paint exaggerating every line. "You'd be surprised at how often a simple bullet to the _head_ fails to do the trick. You could be left a _vegetable_."

"Well, I'm sure a guy like you knows how to do it properly," I say, insinuating the slightest tone of challenge into my voice.

He doesn't fall for the bait. Barely waiting for me to finish my taunt, he says rapidly, "You don't wanna die, Em."

I blink and draw back a little, my arms falling away from him, but he reaches up with one hand, catching my right wrist and pressing it back against his chest—holding me in place. Eyebrows furrowed, a little flabbergasted that he could miss so obvious a point, I say, "Well… _duh,_ I don't want to die, but I'm _going_ to, right?" When the only answer I get is an expressionless, dark-eyed stare that could mean anything, I prompt him, a little aggravated: " _Right_?"

He tilts his head towards me, almost forehead-to-forehead, and says, " _Everybody's_ going to _die._ Still, you don't see millions of people _offing_ themselves in the streets just because they know it's gonna happen _eventually_."

"Yeah, but I think I've got a slightly better guess as to _when_ I'm dying than the rest of them do," I say, a little bitter laugh escaping me unbidden.

He gives one of his little tic-like half-shrugs. "Well, maybe you do, maybe you don't," he mutters, glancing at his feet, and I get the impression that he's speaking to himself more than me. Before I can call him on the cryptic bullshit, though, his head darts up again, and he says clearly, " _You_ are just tired, hungry, and _depressed._ Y'know, it happens sometimes late at night. Or... so I'm told," he says, forehead furrowing for a moment, and then he jumps back on track. "Anyway, _buck up_. There's _lots_ to live for."

I choke back a laugh that rises out of nowhere. _The Joker? Cheering me up? This is gonna be good._ "Oh, yeah?" I ask, just to see what kind of things the _Joker_ thinks life is worth living for. "Like what?"

"I dunno," he says, vaguely waving his spare hand around, like he can snatch the answers out of the air. "Puppies… Cadbury eggs…"

I wait for a second, but when it appears that he's reached the end of his list of things that he apparently thinks give normal people's lives meaning, I say, trying not to laugh, "Uhmm—I'm allergic to dogs, and I've never had a sweet tooth."

He lets out a brief huff of annoyance. "Formaldehyde, then," he says impatiently. "Who _knows_ what you're into?"

 _Damn him, making me smile when I'm serious about this._ I duck my head again, working hard to wipe all traces of amusement from my face—it isn't hard once I remind myself what I'm after. After a second, I'm able to lift my head and look at him, expressionless once more. "No thanks. I'll take the bullet."

He stares at me for a second, as if not quite able to comprehend that I'm serious. "Maybe we should talk about this in the morning."

I shake my head stubbornly, refusing to let him wiggle his way out of this so easily. "It _is_ morning. Well, close enough."

His head sways to the side, eyes narrowing and lips drawing back in a slight snarl. I can tell he's annoyed, pissed off that this task has fallen to him—he's not exactly in the business of talking people off of ledges; I imagine he's much more comfortable standing on the sidelines, talking them _into_ taking that final, fatal step. Hell, I'm fully aware that he only wants me alive so his plan to bait Batman will go off perfectly—the only real reason he threatened me earlier is because I was endangering him, not because he wanted me dead at that exact moment. After all, what good is a sacrificial lamb if it's brought to the altar already dead? It lacks that extra _oomph._

I begin to realize that his irritation might just work in my favor, and so I lean forward another inch, speaking almost directly into his ear. "You didn't seem to have a problem with it earlier tonight. Come on, really—if I'd kept fighting, you'd have done it, wouldn't you?"

He blinks, looking at me out of the corner of his eye. His tongue flicks out to swipe at his lower lip, and I notice that his fingers are twitching—almost like he'd like nothing more than to get them around someone's neck.

It's encouraging. _I might actually be able to goad him into doing this, after all,_ I think, and running with the thought, I chuckle in his ear, a bit more throatily than normal due to the injury. "Come _on._ Don't tell me you haven't been waiting to consummate this—whatever little thing this is between us—since the beginning. Is it because I'm _asking_ you now? Because I'm sure I'll fight back once it's _actually_ happening. It'll still be fun."

I'm hardly aware of what I'm saying at this point—the playing field has shifted beneath my feet and the game we're playing has changed again. Only this time, for once, I have the strangest feeling that I've got the upper hand, if only because _he_ has a plan and I don't. I don't even plan to _survive_ anymore, and this liberates me entirely—I get to say and do what I want, and if he wants me to stop, he's got to give me what I want. Simple as that.

 _Or not,_ I think in the split second it takes him to tighten his grip on my wrist and jerk me sideways. His other hand clutches at my waist as I collapse into him, and in a dizzying whirlwind of speed and motion, he flips me easily onto my back on the bed—a second later, his chest crushes into mine; his forearms, bearing the brunt of his weight, pin my wrists to the mattress beside my head, and he half-straddles me, one leg beside mine and the other stretched obliquely across my thighs, keeping me from getting one free to knee him in the balls.

It's the quickest and most thoroughly I've ever been pinned. However, aside from the initial moment of alarm, I have no intention of letting him scare me into giving up. Lifting my head from the mattress as far as I can, pushing my way into his face the way he so frequently does into mine, I say, "Oh, what are you gonna do? _Kill_ me?"

He lowers his chin, looking me in the eye, and with the appearance of total calm and maybe a little—is that _amusement_?—he says, "Settle down, now, _sweetie._ It just sounds to _me_ like you're forgetting a couple 'a little details."

"Details like _what_?"

"Well," he says, settling more firmly atop me as he pretends to think about it, his weight pushing me down into the mattress in a way that's damnably not-unpleasant, "I've got a _thousand_ ways to make you cooperate without resorting to the threat of _death._ For instance—well, no, you don't have any _loved ones_ to threaten, but…" His eyes stray away for a second, apparently finding the shaded window at the edge of the room very interesting. As if speaking an afterthought, he casually says, "Well, there's pain."

I actually laugh at that, which proves to be a mistake, because he's suddenly grinning in my face, amused by my flippancy, and through his smile he says, "I could _easily_ demonstrate for you, Em. There are a hundred ways to hurt you—really _bad_ —without verging into the fatal stuff, or even the _crippling_ stuff."

"You're full of—"

"What about your fingernails?" he interrupts, leaning closer towards my face. "If you're so determined to _die,_ you won't need 'em. So you won't mind if I _yank_ them off with a pair of needlenose pliers, huh?"

The threat is sobering, serving to bring me down from whatever suicidal high I've been riding. My scornful smile fades, and I look him in one eye and then the other, trying to figure out if he means it.

" _Or_ ," he continues, warming to what is doubtless a favorite subject, "your _teeth._ Pluck 'em out, one by one, back to front—and _feed_ 'em to you. See if your stomach can handle dissolving _those_ —on top of all the blood you'll be swallowing, of course."

I swallow compulsively. My cheek is still bleeding from where I bit it earlier, and the taste of blood on top of the grotesque vision he's spinning makes me feel vaguely sick.

He leans back a little, head twitching left and right to shake rumpled green hair back from his eyes. "Or, you know, if we're gonna move to torture anyway—maybe I won't kill ya. Hmm? Playthings are _much_ more fun when they c'n talk—now that I think about it, maybe I'll cancel all _this_ —" he purses his lips, looking over my head, gaze scanning the room as if it's the city—"and take you somewhere _quiet._ Break your knees and elbows, set 'em backwards, let 'em heal. We can figure out a way for you to get around." He chuckles, and the sound raises goosebumps. "Maybe—I bet you'd look like a little _crab,_ scuttling here and there."

I'd thought I was beyond tears, but here they come, outraged and horrified, gathering fast in the corners of my eyes. I turn my head, trying to avoid his gaze, to keep him from seeing, but he just leans down to mumble into my invitingly-upturned ear.

"And then, once you'd learned how to manage the _deformity_ … Em, didja know it only takes a _screwdriver_ to give someone a lobotomy?" I screw my eyes shut, and he chortles high against my ear. "It's almost _too_ easy. I'm getting' really _good_ at it, too. You see, you go in through the eye socket, between the _eyeball_ and the tissue there—"

I manage a choked sob, feeling suffocated now by his body stretched out on top of mine. " _No._ "

It's just a whisper, barely even that, but I hear him lean back a little. " _No_?"

I shake my head, keeping my eyes tightly closed, folding my lips into my mouth for a second in an effort to regain control of myself. " _Please_."

He gives a little huff, faking frustration flawlessly. "Well, I mean—I'm just _brainstorming_ here, Em. _You're_ the suicidal one; I'm just tryin' to give your remaining days a little _pizazz_."

I'm panting by now, the effort of breathing while crying and being half-crushed by a man nearly twice my size taking a toll. The heady delusion of power has disappeared completely; even if his threats (which I know he's perfectly capable of carrying out) hadn't made that clear, our physical positions have—I couldn't get away from him now if I tried. I was an idiot for thinking I could _make_ him do anything—a desperate, exhausted idiot, but still an idiot.

He shows no sign of being willing to move until I answer him back, and so, struggling for breath, I say, "I just… want to be _free_ of you. I'm sorry. Everything hurts, and I just—" I draw in a ragged breath—"I just want it to _end_."

I don't dare open my eyes to look at him, but after a second's silence, he shifts. I feel him rising, practically stepping over me, and the floorboard creaks as he steps off the bed. Air comes to me in a rush now that the weight of him is gone, and I manage to turn myself on my side, curling up, too tired to fight off the tears. I expect him to just leave me alone now that his point has been made, but the bed dips as he sits down again, behind me this time, his folded knee poking me in the shoulderblades. His fingers find their way to my hair again, and I tense up, expecting them to tighten and pull, but they just work their way through the damp curls. He continues in silence for a moment or two, and I feel myself relaxing despite myself, my body's reaction to the first soothing gesture I've received for some time.

"We-ell," he says finally, sighing, "maybe I am being a _little_ hard on you. After all, you've done pretty _well_ , all things considered."

I don't respond to that, focusing instead on regaining some sort of emotional and physical equilibrium. I keep expecting him to either turn on me or get up and leave, but he doesn't—he just sits at my back and keeps petting my hair innocuously.

Since this is the Joker, and since the Joker doesn't _do_ innocuous, I turn over to face him as soon as I feel able. He doesn't stop, though, merely lifting his hand for a moment as I shift and then replacing it once I'm settled facing him. If I had the energy, I'd scoff. _Of course. His little puppy overstepped its bounds and he had to pull out the rolled-up newspaper; now that the punishment is over he needs to pet it and reassure it that he still loves it._

The metaphor makes me feel ill, but I can hardly recoil in disgust. If he even let me (and something tells me he wouldn't; on the surface he might be offering comfort, but beneath it all this is a powerplay and I am—as always—right where he wants me), I'm not sure if I would. By this point, I'm starved for tenderness, even the false, cheap kind, and so I lie here, breathing softly and taking unwilling solace in his touch.

After a few moments, I begin to feel drowsy, but I'm unwilling to drop off and just waste this—this, which could well be the last peaceful moment I get… well, ever. I decide that there's little risk in speaking up and chancing one of his mood swings—he's already held the threat of torture over my head tonight and I'm hoping that'll have cooled him off for now.

Stirring slightly, tilting my head a little so I can see him without sitting up, I peer at his face. He's not looking at me, his gaze focused on some spot across the room, and I watch him for a minute, appreciating the opportunity to watch him while he's not watching me back. After a second, I reach up and curl my fingers around his wrist, stilling his hand, which pulls him from his thoughts—he looks down at me, forehead furrowed in what looks like surprise, as if he's forgotten that I'm still here.

In my patchy voice, I say softly, "Want to know a secret?"

His eyes twitch, irises darting back and forth in a millisecond's time. Beyond that, nothing betrays what he might be thinking as he parts his lips, gives me a passing grin, and purrs, " _Suuure_."

I stare up at him, and for a moment, I really believe that I'm going to tell him—that he's wrong about my taking some sick pleasure in his murder and mayhem, sure, but also that increasingly, I'm becoming aware that he's right about me liking him. I'm going to tell him that I didn't crave his attention and his presence to begin with like he accused me of doing, but that I've begun to now, so what's the point in quibbling?

I look at the mildly-expectant face, planning my punch line— _I think I'm losing my mind._ I don't intend to do this with the expectation of any comfort. He doesn't do comfort, not _really_ , and _especially_ not when I'm affirming practically everything he's suspected of me in the past few days. Even so, it seems like something I need to do, to seek absolution for all of the things I feel and have done from the only person I've had any sort of real contact with for quite some time. Of course, I doubt he'd grant me absolution even if he could, but that doesn't seem important.

I take a breath to start spilling the secrets, but before I can speak, I blink. It's only a split second break in the eye contact, barely an interruption at all, but it serves to bring me quietly back to my senses.

_Cut the shit. The only thing a confession would accomplish is that it would provide him with a shitload of ammunition he can use to tease and torment you for the remainder of your short life._ _**Never** _ _tell him that he was right, even if it's true. Always pretend you're at least an arm's length away from him, even if you both know that's definitely_ _**not** _ _true. Don't ever tell him what he wants to hear, unless the idea of emotional torture sounds_ _**fun** _ _to you._

I blink twice more in rapid succession before I realize that he's starting to look a little impatient, his fingers clenching a little more tightly against my scalp. I flounder for a 'secret' to offer him, and after a second, I land on one—lame, but serviceable. "I don't think Batman's going to come for me."

He stares at my face for a lingering moment, and I think I can see a trace of disappointment, though that could easily be me projecting. After a second, he bends his head down a little closer, conspiratorially. "And why no _t_?"

I've always been fairly good at thinking on my feet, even if my proclivity for thinking out loud at the same time tends to get me into trouble. I quickly set my mind free and follow along its path. "Well," I begin hesitantly, "I mean—if I'm wrong, say so, but it's no coincidence that you came for me at the same time you started plotting against Falcone, right?"

An arched eyebrow engraves ripples in the greasepaint smeared across his forehead. It's the only response I'm going to get.

"Right, well… the best reason I can think of for you to do that is because you want Batman's attention divided. I haven't seen the video yet, but apparently, you've publicly challenged him to come find me before I bite the dust, right?"

Still no response, but I'm on a roll now, so I go on regardless: "And on the other hand, he's _gotta_ know that you and Falcone are battling it out and that a lot of people are dying. Problem is that if he devotes himself to one case more thoroughly than the other, then he risks losing out on the neglected case completely… but if he tries to cover both of them equally, there's an even bigger chance that he'll lose both. He's going to have to choose in the end. I don't think he'll choose me."

The Joker presses his lips together, purses them, tilts his chin up, and then rolls his eyes down to look knowingly at me. "You wanna—uh— _tell_ me how you've reached _that_ conclusion, Em?"

My eyes are watering again, but it's more pure weariness than emotion this time. I lift my hand to dry the hollows beneath my eyes, and as I do, I say, "Just math. You know, if he decides to save me, Falcone will probably die—as will a lot of his men, and some of yours. If he picks Falcone, though, I'm the only guaranteed loss. It doesn't take a rocket scientist—and saving lives has always been his shtick, right?"

"Saving _innocent_ lives," the Joker corrects me, abruptly and unexpectedly pressing the tip of his index against my nose. A smile seems to be forming in his eyes and the lines of his face, as though he's sensed a joke waiting to be made. "And, uh—as if to _prove_ how arbitrary and nonsensical the concept _really_ is—he sees _you_ as the only innocent person involved in this little mishegoss."

I'm silent, digesting this. He licks his lips and adds, almost as an afterthought, "I also happen to know that ol' Bats has a _soft spot_ for helpless little women."

I glare at him. Immediate instinct tells me to deny that I'm helpless, but considering what just transpired, odds are pretty good that he'd only laugh in my face. I don't need to speak, though—he reads my annoyance in my expression and grins leeringly down at me. "Don't take it personally. It's not _your_ fault he's got a _white knight_ thing goin' on. All I'm sayin' is… instead of turning in early cause you think you _know_ how it's all gonna turn out, why don't you wait and see?"

There are a dozen reasons not to stick around—not the least of which being that I've had quite enough pain to last me for some time, thank you, and hanging around the Joker is just inviting more, but…

It's not exactly a negotiation. The Joker wants me alive for now, and I'm not determined enough to kill myself just yet. Giving up any pretense at power, I swallow back my bitterness and mutter, "Well, it's not as if I can say no."

He grins as if I'd given my wholehearted consent. " _Atta_ girl," he says, and then, startling me, he bends over and presses his lips to my cheek—lest I be tempted to read any tenderness in the gesture, he makes sure to target the fresh cut there, sending a flash of pain across my face. I wince and turn my head away, and he gives my head one last condescending pat before standing up. "Now, go to sleep. Tomorrow's Christmas Eve, and, uh— _Santa's elves_ still have a _lot_ of work to do. You're gonna need the rest."

"Sure," I mumble, but I'm too tired to seriously contemplate staying awake just to spite him. As he goes to the bathroom to switch the light off, I crawl to the head of the bed and burrow beneath the covers. The welcome sensation of being in my own bed after all this time away from it is better than any sleeping meds. The last thing I'm aware of is a vague impression of his silhouette in the doorway, the words "Nighty-night" floating towards me through the darkness, and then sleep drags me under.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I was writing this, I had to take a break midway between Emma's conversation with the Joker here. You know, I love him to death, but sometimes he can really be a tremendous douche. Ah well, he's been behaving a little too well for a while, and the pendulum always swings back.
> 
> Thanks to everyone who's read, commented, and/or left kudos. :)


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My most sincere apologies for taking so long to update! I hope this chapter makes up for it.
> 
> Trigger warning for some dubcon-ish behavior and speech in this chapter. Please proceed carefully.

When I wake next, it takes me a moment to get my bearings. Coming to consciousness in my own bed is kind of a trip; it makes me feel for one blissed half-second that the entire thing has been one horribly drawn-out nightmare—a feeling that disintegrates along with the last cobwebs of sleep as all my aches and pains return to me, but for a second, at least, I was at peace.

My location isn't the only thing that throws me off; I realize after a second that gray light is streaming in through the window. I haven't woken before twilight since he first came for me; haven't seen daylight (except for on the wrong end, the faint lightening of the sky that signals pre-dawn) for days. I lie in bed and stare at the shuttered window for a while, a curious sensation filling me, as if I'm drawing strength from the light and from my bed that I occupy alone. Certainly I feel more rested than I have in a while, able to deal with things I couldn't handle last night.

I turn my head away from the window and towards the door, unconsciously seeking the Joker. I can't see him, and I can't hear him, either—he might be sleeping. It's not easy to fly under the radar in an apartment that is (generously speaking, if you count the bathroom) only three rooms big. I'm not particularly surprised that I didn't wake up to find him in my bed—something about his energy last night made me feel like he had no intentions of sleeping, and even if he had… well, I feel strangely sure that he'd had enough of me for one night.

Newly rested, I feel strong enough to admit to myself that last night was a big mistake. I know by now that asking the Joker for something (or otherwise indicating that I want it) is the surest possible way of not getting it. I don't know, maybe that was the plan all along—maybe it was my subconscious's clever way of keeping me alive for one more night. The memory seems too fuzzy to be examined closely, like I'd been drunk or drugged.

I sigh at the thought. _What I wouldn't give for a strong drink right about now._ It's an absent-minded wish, not a desire I'd make good on even if I had the opportunity. I'm feeling halfway strong for the first time in days; I have no intention of fogging my wits _now_.

I _could_ use some food, though, and coffee wouldn't go amiss, either. I roll out of bed, still fully clothed, and go to the bathroom to freshen up. As I go through an abbreviated morning routine, I again register some discomfort at the fact that I can't hear any movement from the rest of the apartment, but I don't allow myself to hope—or dread—that the Joker's taken off. _Maybe he_ _ **did**_ _fall asleep,_ I tell myself, casting a passing glance at my battered reflection before leaving the bathroom.

My first step into the living area proves me wrong. He's sitting upright in the armchair in the corner overlooking the rest of the room, and he's not asleep—but from the looks of him, he's not awake, either. I take a few hesitant steps closer, leaving plenty of space between us but wanting a better look. His eyes are half-shut, the pupils just visible beneath the dark sweep of lashes, creating the vague illusion that the black paint around them have swallowed them whole. His lips are closed, corners of his mouth pulled downwards in a natural resting frown, and his arms lay flat against the rests, fingers hanging loose off the edges. From a distance, I can't tell if he's breathing.

It's profoundly unsettling, and not a little creepy. Noiseless and motionless, he looks uncannily like some giant eerie clown dummy, but I can't bring myself to try to call his attention or approach him to check for signs of life.

 _Fuck it,_ I think, _if he's dead, he'll start to stink soon enough._ Shaking off the heebie-jeebies the best I can, I cross into the kitchen area to search for some food that hasn't gone bad. After throwing out some bad fruit and emptying the expired milk, I select some eggs and bacon that are still good—protein will stick to my ribs, keep me going in case I end up skipping a few more meals.

Soon enough, the kitchen feels warm and alive, and the sizzle of the frying pan and soft rumble of the coffee machine have replaced the unnerving silence. I hadn't realized how accustomed I've gotten to constant noise, chatter, and activity until he stopped talking. To burn time while the food cooks, I wash the dishes left in the sink during my unexpected absence—the plates are scummy and gross after being left unattended for three days, but after all I've seen in that short span of time, it seems stupid to get squeamish.

Soon enough, the kitchen is in order and my food and coffee are ready. I sit at my little four-person table to eat, facing the Joker so I can keep a wary eye on him. My stomach revives in response to the smell of food, though, and before long, I've all but forgotten about him, and I eat quickly and hungrily.

However, three days with nothing to eat but a few slices of pizza takes a toll on one's stomach. I only manage to make my way through half of the food on my plate before I give up, feeling uncomfortably full despite the fact that I've only managed to eat one egg and two slices of bacon. I eye my cup of coffee warily, eventually deciding that I can probably manage it if I take small, infrequent sips.

The light outside of the window is fading, and a glance at the kitchen clock tells me that it's not yet five o'clock. Gotham Three airs news updates on the hour, so I pick up my coffee and go into the living area, gingerly seating myself on the farthest end of the couch from the still creepily-inanimate Joker.

I turn on the TV, glancing again at him, but he doesn't so much as twitch. I turn the channel to Four and turn the volume up as much as I dare. It's not quite five—they're airing live footage of the Gotham City Philharmonic performing Handel's _Messiah_. Any other day, I'd enjoy listening to the oratorio, but today… today, it just grates on my nerves. Immediate physical needs tended to, the need to know what's in store is starting to itch uncomfortably beneath my skin. I sip my coffee and wait, fingers tapping convulsively against my knee, unable to stop myself from glancing repeatedly at the Joker.

He's still motionless. As far as I can tell, he hasn't even blinked. Starting to worry a little, I increase the volume. No response.

Shortly, the news comes on—and my story is first. The anchor, an appropriately solemn-looking man with thin gray-blonde hair plastered to his forehead, addresses the camera from his desk:

"As we go into the second night since the notorious domestic terrorist known only as the Joker resurfaced with a challenge for disgraced vigilante the Batman, and police are reporting no leads. The Joker sent a DVD to Gotham Channel Three which included the following footage. Be warned—the footage may disturb some viewers."

The picture has been hastily edited, I can tell, with half-second bursts of static marking scenes apparently too unnerving for the Gotham public to witness. It doesn't matter; the basics translate. I watch calmly, eerily detached from the image that my brain tells me is _me_ , that battered, white little creature curled up on the couch, totally oblivious to the Joker's scrutiny. I listen as he growls at the camera, finally getting confirmation that my guesses are accurate, that the situation is _exactly_ what I think it is.

Like it or not, I've become a pawn in the game between Batman and the Joker, a distraction designed to keep the hero off his game. I should be angry, but really—I've known this almost from the beginning. After all, isn't getting Batman's attention always his end game?

The picture cuts from the ghastly, laughing face back to the sober-faced anchor. "As of yet, there have been no reported sightings of either the Joker or the Batman. A representative from the Gotham Police Department assures us that they are doing all they can to find the Joker and return the captive safely home."

From there, they move on to the lighter topic of the Christmas parade planned for the next day. I stare blankly at the screen for a second before my brain catches up with me, and I lift the remote to switch off the TV.

When I next look at the Joker, I nearly jump out of my skin upon discovering that his eyes are fully open now, and fixed on me. I know he sees me jump, but at least I don't cry out (though I can't quite stop the words "For fuck's sake" from slipping through my lips).

He's still unnervingly motionless, but at least he's _present_ —at least I know he's not dead. _Wouldn't that be a relief._ Recovering a little, I pull my legs up onto the couch and say, trying not to sound defensive, "Well, you said I could see the video."

He blinks twice, licking his lips in the same way another person might stretch out after a full night's sleep, and then, voice pitched slightly lower than his usual mocking keen, he purrs, "I did. See anything… interesting?"

"I imagine they only played an excerpt, but I think I got the gist."

"Good," he says briefly, and stands from his chair with a sigh, dusting off his thighs. Without speaking to or looking at me again, he walks past the couch and into the bedroom.

I get up slowly and go into the kitchen to refill my coffee. At the counter, I find my eye is drawn to my cell phone, left there when I was abducted several nights ago. For a second, temptation flares up—but it's easier to tamp down than it has been before (aided in part by the fact that the phone is bound to be dead by now).

Before the temptation has the opportunity to resurface, the Joker emerges from the back room and goes straight to the half-full coffee pot, also effectively hemming me into the kitchen area. I retreat to the farthest counter from him and lean back against it, fully prepared to scramble over it into the more open living room if he comes too close.

For now, though, he seems content to just pour some coffee and stay put, not necessarily presenting an immediate threat—but, trapped as I am, it doesn't exactly put me at ease. Even more unsettling—he's barely said two words since he… woke up, or revived, or whatever. The Joker is a chatty person—his silence doesn't bode well.

So, naturally, I brave the perilous terrain that is conversation with him. I say, "So what were you doing just them?"

He glances at me out of the corner of his eye, putting on a puzzled look as he replaces the pot. "What, in the bathroom?"

"No," I reply quickly, certain that I don't want to hear him carry the willful misunderstanding any further. "When you were sitting there just now, you looked… dead."

He turns his head and stares at me for a second. "I _wasn't_ dead."

"Yeah, obviously." I shake my head, giving it up. "Never mind. It doesn't matter."

Instead of leaving, though, he turns around, leaning back against the counter with his legs stretched out to block my escape route and fixing me with a stare. " _You_ seem a little more lively."

I'm immediately on guard. "Fishing for the opportunity to say _I told you so_?"

" _Should_ I?"

I pause for a second, looking down at my feet and taking stock of my mental state. I _do_ feel better than I did last night, that much is undeniable—sleeping in my own bed did me good, and the stupid, suicidal impulse has faded. Still, something's left… something that's not quite recklessness, something a little more thoughtful and bone-deep. This something makes me feel certain that I'm not going to try to run and hide from my death sentence, should it prove inevitable. I'm tired of scrambling to add time to the clock. It's gone on long enough.

Of course, I have no intentions of telling _him_ all this. I look up and refocus calmly on his face. "We'll see what happens."

He flashes me his yellowed grin and straightens up, turning away and meandering over to the table, where he helps himself to the remnants of my food, standing and picking through it like some great scavenging bird. I'd still have to pass a little too close to him to escape the kitchen, and after witnessing his creepy form of half-sleep, I'm a little unsettled, so I stay put for now. Reaching to fill the silence again, I say, "So, what are the plans for today?"

" _Plans_?" he repeats as though he's never heard the word. I try not to show evidence of my exasperation.

"Yeah, plans. You—I mean, it's Christmas Eve—in another seven hours, we're looking at Christmas Day. Didn't you have some gifts you wanted to give?"

"Well, if I recall _correctly_ … ah, one of those gifts was for you," he says, mouth full, glancing at me over his shoulder. "Spending _time_ with you? Ring a bell?"

"Yeah, but—" I stop myself as he turns back to the table, knowing enough by now to recognize when I'm not going to be able to get him to talk. Frustrated nonetheless, I stare at the plate of food he's demolishing, wishing I'd had the foresight to spray it down with roach poison after I'd finished. Staring across the kitchen at the clock so I don't have to look at him, I say dispassionately, "Well, at any rate, it would probably be a smart move to leave the apartment soon. Eventually, _someone's_ gonna come here to look around—whether it'll be the cops or Batman looking for clues or my landlord hunting for money, I can't say, but I doubt we'll be safe for much longer."

" _Safe_ ," he says, drawing out the sibilance of the word, but otherwise, he doesn't respond.

I give up and decide to risk passing close to him on the way to the living room. He doesn't touch me as I go by, but he does look up and fix me with an unsettling stare. I'm uncomfortably aware of his eyes following me all the way to the couch, but, determined not to let him see how anxious he's making me, I flop down on the couch with a careless, bored sigh, picking up the remote and turning on the TV. I hear him chuckle softly, making me think he's not quite buying the nonchalance, and I resist the urge to give his turned back the finger, firmly telling myself that just because I'm not trying to outrun death anymore doesn't mean I need to _invite_ it.

And for all my efforts to play at not giving him a second thought, I zone out as soon as I put the remote back down. I can't help wondering what he's up to. Since the night when he killed that police officer in his home, there's always been _something_ in motion—even when we were waiting around, there was always something we were waiting _for_ , some plan or research that needed to be carried out before he made his next move.

This time—well, I definitely get the sense that he's waiting for something, but I have no idea what it is, and that bothers me. Sure, I'm used to being kept mostly in the dark, fed only a few tantalizing hints here and there, but based on my surroundings and the things he said to his henchmen, I was always able to piece things mostly together.

Now that it's just me and him in the neutral ground of my apartment, that information flow has shut down, and I don't like it.

I'm frowning in dissatisfaction, oblivious to what's on the TV, when he suddenly drops down on the couch next to me. _Right_ next to me, as a matter of fact, settling in thigh-to-thigh and shoulder-to-shoulder, eyes fixed on the TV and tongue probing at all the crevices and hollows inside his mouth as if the thought that I might want a bit of space hasn't even occurred to him.

I shift, starting to scoot a few inches away, but his arm drops across the back of the couch and he grips my shoulder, pressing against it—not forcefully, but I'm sure that'll change if I don't yield. Silently, I slide back against him, and his hand relaxes, now just resting on my shoulder instead of gripping it.

I'm tense, even more so at the fact that he doesn't appear to actually be _doing_ anything aside from watching TV. I glance briefly at the set, wondering what channel I'd chosen without thinking about it, and I hold back a snort when I see what's on. _Adventure Time. Of course._

I've never been locked in a cage with a tiger, but I imagine this must be what it feels like. Even if the tiger isn't particularly hungry or pissed off, there's always the fear that it might take a swat at you just because—well, because that's how a tiger _is._ My muscles are taut, ready to launch me away from him at the slightest sound of a weapon being pulled, and I _know_ he can feel the slight tremble of anxiety and the stiffness of tension coming off my body.

 _Note to self,_ I think, trying not to breathe faster than normal, _embracing the inevitability of death does_ _ **not**_ _equal embracing fear._

This goes on for two fucking hours. I'd think he was just lost in thought or watching TV, but after those first few minutes, I started risking a glance at him now and again, and almost every time, he was _staring_ at me. Having to sit next to him is one thing, but after a while, the staring threatens to drive me right out of my skin.

After I deem enough time has passed since the first attempt, I move to get up. I imagine I can feel him watching my every movement, but he makes no motion to stop me this time, and I retreat quickly to the bathroom, where I splash some cold water on my face and brush my teeth to buy some time.

Meeting the eyes of my reflection in the mirror, I mutter fiercely, "Get it together. Stop being such a wuss."

When I go back out into the bedroom, the Joker is standing just inside the doorway.

For the second time tonight, I jump a mile, hand jerking up instinctively to smother a scream that never quite manifests. I abort the movement, dropping my arm to my side, and, furious with him for getting that reaction out of me _again,_ I say, "What is your _problem_?"

Probably the wrong question to ask, given the huge variety of truthful responses he could almost certainly come up with. He doesn't answer, though. His tongue flicks out, serpent-like, to swipe at his top lip, and he just stares at me like he's been doing regularly for two straight hours.

I'm suddenly getting a very bad feeling. I sidestep, going for the door, but his arm extends and grips the edge, giving it a swift, deliberate pull, and it swings shut, falling into place with a click that seems noisy in the sudden unbearable silence between us.

I take a reflexive step back. He takes two steps forward, floorboards creaking beneath his shoes, and I scurry further backwards until the backs of my legs hit the edge of the bed. Ignoring the little voice in my head that insists further retreat will only give him a stronger taste of my fear, I circle backwards to the other side of the bed as quickly as I'm able, but he doesn't let up, continuing in his steady pursuit.

By the time I've backed myself into a corner, I've begun to accept the situation. I'm trapped between the bed and the wall, and the only avenue of escape I can see is to scramble over the mattress, a flight that could be easily thwarted—all he'd have to do is throw me a little off-balance and I'd collapse on my stomach or back onto the bed. At the moment, facing him seems to be the preferable option, and so I try to compose myself and show him nothing but calm as he comes down the little lane composed by the edge of the bed and the wall, the gap between us steadily dwindling away to practically nothing.

 _This is it,_ I think, looking up into his painted face and knowing that for all my efforts, my fear must be evident. _This is when he finally kills me._

He lifts his hand, winding his fingers into the hair at the nape of my neck and cupping the back of my head tightly in his palm. For one adrenaline-heightened second, I wonder if he could crush my skull with those fingertips.

Then, sharp and fast, he bends down and kisses me, and this… this is not like the other times. The first time was a taunt, the second was just him responding to the violent challenge I'd set forth, but this… with his hand holding my head so tightly I can't move an inch, with the way his tongue is pushing forcefully into my mouth—it's the same thing he was doing last night, just in a different form. It's a reminder. _I own you._

And, as always when provoked, I respond with stupid belligerence. I bite down— _hard._

Of course, I've forgotten his apparent taste for masochism. Even as the sharp, metallic taste of his blood fills my mouth, he makes a muffled, guttural sound and pulls back—but before I can hope that he's finished, he twists his arm and flings me down to the mattress. Before I can flip over and make a break for the door, he follows me, chest pressed hard—almost painfully—against mine, and he grins. "And I really _do_ like you, Em," he says, continuing some imagined conversation out loud. I can see blood on his teeth, gathering on the inside of his lower lip, and I'm not sure whether to be repulsed at the sight or satisfied. "You've got the balls to _bite._ That takes, ya know—a _rare_ person. At least, when you're dealing with _me._ "

"Oh, get over yourself," I start to say, but before I can quite get it out, he smashes his mouth against mine again, and this time, too frustrated and too flabbergasted to do anything else, I kiss back, just as hard. My hands drift up, but instead of balling them into fists and aiming for his gut, I grab the edges of his coat forcefully, trying to convey a simple message: _the fact that you initiated this doesn't mean shit; this is happening because_ _ **I**_ _want it to happen, got it?_

Apparently so, because he breaks away and aims a horrifying grin at me. "And, uh… like I've said before, it's pretty obvious: you like _me,_ too."

I stare straight up into those cavernous eyes, searching for something— _anything_ – human in them. Hell, I'd settle for lust. But no. I only see constricted black pinpoints in the center of that murky brown that's only even a color when you're looking at it this closely. They say eyes are windows to the soul—fair enough. When I'm looking into his, all I can see is an abyss out to devour.

His hands have started to wander. Trying to ignore the fingertips creeping beneath the hem of my shirt, I open my mouth without quite knowing what to say—never a great idea around the Joker, but the only one I've got right now. "I know what this is."

"Oh, do you," he said, his other hand resting on my throat, fingertip brushing against my chin. He couldn't sound less interested in what I have to say, and the fingers beneath my shirt are tracing light circles around my navel, making it difficult to think past the lightning bolts of sensation shooting straight down from his hand—doubtless his object. I struggle past them.

"You're bored because whatever plans you have, they evidently require _waiting,_ and waiting's… no fun. So you've—decided to make use of the only _toy_ you have at your disposal."

"Mm, sounds like you've got _me_ all figured out," he croons as he drags a finger along the waistline of my jeans, prompting a certain shortness of breath. "Tell me _more_."

Recognizing a warning when I hear it, I refocus. _Switch off,_ I firmly order my body, to no real avail (of course). Ignoring the treacherous lifting of my hips and quick breathing the best I can, I look back into his eyes again and say, clearly, "I'm not your toy."

"Maybe not," he concedes, looking straight back at me, "but, uh, your _pupils_ are dilated. A _lot_. So I must be doing _something_ right."

I turn my face away from him, and he lets loose a throaty chuckle, bending down, his hair brushing against my throat as he gives the spot directly beneath my ear a sharp little bite, sending the air rushing shakily from my lungs all at once. He laughs again, lifting goosebumps from my skin, and doesn't bother to lift his mouth from my ear before speaking again, low and way too intimate: "Maybe it's time you quit focusing on _my_ motivation and think instead about what _you_ … wan _t_."

I twist my head forward again, prompting him to lift his face before it gets hit by the side of mine. Fiercely, I hiss, "I _want_ you to quit treating me like a rag doll."

"Oh, no, no," he purrs, lowering his head again, mouth nearly colliding with mine as his hand slips out from under my shirt. "I'm pretty sure being treated like a—ah— _rag doll_ is exactly what you want. At least for a little while." His fingers skim down over the front of my jeans, resting for a second at the cleft of my legs before he starts to stroke firmly, rhythmically and I shove my head back hard into the mattress because I _know_ I need to stop him, but right now, in the haze of hormones and anger and frustration and maybe-Stockholm-syndrome, the thought of just lifting my hand and shoving his away seems practically impossible.

" _See_?" he enthuses in my ear again. "Isn't it just more _fun_ to give up control for once?"

He doesn't give me the chance to answer before his mouth is on mine again, and I'm kissing him back and moving against his hand, because _fuck it, I'm gonna die soon anyway._ He pushes against me, and as my hand leaves his coat to knot itself into the coarse hair at the back of his head, his hand lifts and slips upward, unfastening the button of my jeans with one deft flick. He jerks the zipper down, and I'm wondering if I'll actually be weak and brave and stupid enough to go through with it, then—

A phone rings.

At first, disoriented, I think I'm imagining it, but it happens again. Without further warning, he disentangles himself from me, straightening up and swiping my hands away from his coat as he reaches into a pocket.

I pull my elbows up to support me and say the first thing that comes to mind. "You've _got_ to be kidding me."

He doesn't bother to meet my eyes, pulling a clunky little burner out of his coat and studying the screen as he murmurs, "Normally, _yeah_ , but _now_ —we gotta get to work."

Without further explanation, he climbs over me off the bed and strides to the door, answering the phone as he goes: "Better tell me somethin' good, _Eddie_."

As soon as he disappears from the room I drop back against the mattress, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. It comes away smeared with red, and instinctively, I catapult from the bed, darting into the bathroom and kicking the door closed behind me. My reflection is—well, I can see how it would be funny in other cases, but at the moment, the red smudged on and around my mouth does nothing but disturb me. With the whiteness of my skin and the discolored bruising, all I can see is someone halfway to clown status herself, and considering the lapse in control I just demonstrated so spectacularly, the thought freaks me out.

I turn on the faucet, duck under the water, and start scrubbing at my mouth. By the time I'm done, my lips and the skin around them are still red, but at least this time it's a natural reaction to the rough treatment instead of his paint.

Still feeling unclean—and a bit concerned that I don't feel unclean _enough_ — I go for the mouthwash, pulling it directly from the bottle and swishing it around to banish the taste and feel of him from my mouth. As my lips twist into the absurd shapes necessary to push the mouthwash into every little crevice, I scowl furiously at myself in the mirror.

_Fucking idiot. All you had to do was push him off. So what if you're inexplicably attracted to him; you're a big girl, you're thoroughly capable of keeping all those guilty little impulses locked up where no one can get to them._

My mouth takes on a wry twist as another thought creeps in— _no one but him, apparently._

The humorless smile turns into a frown as I realize that lately, it feels like every other second I'm upbraiding myself for being stupid. You'd think I'd learn to quit acting recklessly, but no— apparently, whenever I'm presented with the opportunity to act on a terrible idea, I go for it. Thinking this, looking at myself in the mirror, I have a little epiphany. _This is exactly what he wants._

Increasingly, he's showing me that he's more than capable of pushing those bony fingers through the cracks in my mental wall, prying them wide open and robbing me of any security I used to feel. He's exposing the flaws in my mind and setting them up in front of me, forcing me to look at them.

"He can't—he can't do that," I whisper to my reflection, mindful of listening ears. "He can't put me at war with myself like that."

Of course, he _can_ , hence the conflict in the first place—but I see a certain steeliness in the set of my jaw and I realize that, without quite meaning to, I've decided not to let him anymore.

_And the only way to do that is to embrace the stupid parts of me that he wants me to despise—the parts that weigh one man's life over hundreds of others just because I happen to have seen him and not them, the parts that—apparently—crave the Joker's touch and attention equally, despite knowing from experience how dangerous they both can be… the parts that want to die and the parts that still want to stay alive._

I stare at my own battered face and make up my mind on the spot. Not only am I going to quit letting him use my own mind as a weapon against me (easier said than done, I'm sure), but I'm going to start looking for a means of escape. Not because I particularly care whether I live or die after all this—my brain's pretty much reached a stalemate on that topic—but because I don't want him to have the satisfaction of being in control of me anymore.

Sure, he's got the city under his thumb, and sure, I've been shown before that efforts to escape are usually futile—but this time, I've got the advantage of not being the only subject of his focus. Hell, not even the _biggest_ one. Batman's back, fugitive or not, and Alberto Falcone's gotta be taking up _some_ space in his mind. Since he took that phone call, I'm willing to bet that a showdown between the big names is about to occur. If that's the case, it'll leave pitiful little me on the sidelines, small and crumpled and forgotten.

And overlooked, if I'm lucky. If I'm right, tonight will be the perfect time to part ways with the Joker.

_And I'm_ _**going** _ _to do it, even if I have to take a bullet to the head to ensure that I get away from him._

A blow to the door makes me jump, and I realize that I've been standing motionless, treating my reflection to a thousand yard stare as I put myself back together. His voice reaches me through the door, impatient: " _Em!_ Time to go."

I look quickly around the bathroom and my eyes fall on the clothes I'd abandoned in the corner last night. Moving fast, I lean over and fish the knife out of the discarded jeans, slipping it into my back pocket. Straightening up, I take a breath, wipe my mouth again almost compulsively, and then turn to open the door.


	16. Chapter 16

As is his custom, he stands in the doorway, blocking my way out. Determined to start my resolution off strong, I glare up at him and say, "Do you mind?"

His eyebrows lift, though the odds are good that his surprise at my snappiness is feigned. Wordlessly, though, he steps aside and gestures me past, and I blow by him, aiming for my closet. He's on my heels immediately, a hand falling on my elbow to halt my progress before I can get halfway across the room.

"I, uh—I _said_ it's _time to go._ "

Without bothering to look over my shoulder at him, I wrench my elbow out of his hand, and to my surprise, he lets it slip away. As I resume my path to the closet and pull the doors open, I say, "I understand, but I'm _not_ going out there without shoes again. I don't know what you've got planned, but I'm willing to bet at least _some_ of it involves being out of doors, and I've done the half-frozen feet thing already, thanks."

From his silence, I imagine he's either accepted my reasoning or is planning some awful revenge. As I start rummaging through the closet for a pair of heelless, waterproof boots that I _know_ is in here somewhere, he crosses the room and slouches against the doorframe right next to me, but a quick glance at his face doesn't tell me which way he's leaning—just that he's watching me, looking a little… curious.

I find the boots, which are a tighter fit than the pair he got for me, easier to run in, and plunk down on the floor to pull them on. As I work the first one over my sock (though it's impossible for me to sleep in shoes, I wasn't foolish enough to remove _those_ ), he says, out of the blue, "You're mad at me for that, huh?"

Despite the fact that time is limited, I actually take a break from what I'm doing to give him a look of scorn that, a few days ago, I would have been afraid would get me killed. There are a thousand things I could say in response to that, but I decide that glaring is enough without opening my mouth to go along with it, so I treat it like a rhetorical question and go back to tying laces.

The Joker, though, goes on. "Look, if it wasn't _important,_ I wouldn't have left you _cold_."

I snort before I can stop myself, and then, figuring that since I'm already digging my own grave, one more scoop won't hurt, I say, pulling the second lace tight, "You know, somehow I think I'll survive."

I stand up, but the Joker stops me before I can do anything else, resting the length of his fingers along the inside of my arm. Reluctantly, recognizing the cue for what it is, I look up to meet his eyes. He gives me a grin that I suppose sometime long ago, before the scars and before the rot in his brain, could have been called rakish—charming, even. "Hey. We can go for round _two_ after this is over. I promise."

I feel my eyebrows shoot up, then rush back down again. I blink twice, processing the fact that the words _I promise_ could even make it out of his mouth without causing him to internally combust, and then, lifting up on tiptoe, I say softly, "Don't make promises you can't keep."

I settle back down to my heels and head for the door, and he lets me, though he follows uncomfortably close. I go straight to the coat rack by the door and select my heavy pea coat, since I imagine I'll need it, and as I slip it on, he reaches over my shoulder to grab the oversized hoodie I'd been wearing for the past few days. I pause to watch him, and after a second's thought, he also liberates a long black scarf hanging on one of the hooks and wraps it around his throat and the bottom half of his face. He takes off his greatcoat and bunches it into a thick package of heavy cloth (bulging in places, doubtless where weapons are to be found) before donning the jacket and pulling the hood up and over his face, tucking the folded coat under his arm. I squint critically at him for a second before nodding begrudgingly—in the dark street, with the scarf and the hood masking him, what's visible of his face won't be immediately obvious to any passersby, especially if he keeps his head down.

_Now, if they make the purple suit, that's another story,_ I think wryly, but as if he knows what I'm thinking, he zips the jacket over his torso. The purple pants are still undisguised, but in the dark, they'll probably just appear black. _Good enough._

He gestures with a gloved hand. "Fire escape," he says, his voice slightly muffled by the scarf. I don't like the idea of trusting the rusty exit again, but it's a better idea than tramping through lit hallways where neighbors could step out and see us at any moment. Unwillingly, I go to the window and slide it open, wriggling out. Once I land on the platform outside, I immediately start the climb down, unwilling to share too much space with him and risk the whole creaky structure collapsing, but he's close behind me, which just spurs me to move faster. We climb down the side of the building in record time.

As I land on the street below, I note for the first time that it's started to snow—big, fat flakes that catch in my hair. I brush them out as he lands beside me, and he's moving before he even straightens up completely, taking my elbow and hurrying me to the mouth of the alleyway. At the street, he pauses, leaning out and checking the area, and out of curiosity, I follow suit.

The streets are empty. _Of course,_ I think as he pulls me out onto the sidewalk, setting a fast pace and making me hurry to keep up. _It's Christmas Eve and it's snowing. All of the sane people are safe in their homes, gathered around their Christmas trees with their children or their families._

The realization sends an unexpected pang straight to my heart, a pang I haven't felt in… well, ever. Before this year, I always had one of those warm homes and I always had at least one family member to spend Christmas with.

A lot can happen in a year. I'm living evidence of it. _And now,_ I think, as we walk briskly towards the parking lot at the end of the street where we left the mob car, _I'm spending Christmas with the Joker._ Weirdly appropriate, given how thoroughly isolated I've become since the bank robbery that first day. _Hell,_ I think, wistful despite myself, _at least I'm not totally alone._ It's a thin thread, but if it keeps me from becoming a mournful wreck at the worst possible time, I'll take it.

As if he senses the turn my thoughts have taken and can't pass up a chance to toy with me (or maybe because he wants to appear casual, who knows?), he loosens his grip on my elbow and instead slides his arm through mine, slowing his strides a bit. I shoot him a quick glance and speak up quickly, lest he start taunting me again. "When I was a kid I always used to wish for white Christmases."

"Mm," he says noncommittally. His eyes, the only part of his face I can really see, are scanning the street ahead us, making sure he'll see any potential threat before it sees us. I go on to distract myself from the unexpected sadness gathering in my chest.

"I got my wish every year but one—Nebraska's pretty snowy. Still, I used to get worried if we were coming up on Christmas and the skies were clear. I'd sit at the window watching for snowflakes; Mom used to say my nose would freeze to the window if I didn't watch out."

"Ever seen a _frostbitten_ nose?" he asks abruptly.

I pause. That's not exactly the direction I expected him to take the conversation—really, I expected jabs about my parents, people dead for so long that I've had time to build diamond-hard walls around my feelings about them, about the crash. It's part of why I told him _that_ anecdote—if he goes after my parents, I'm prepared for anything and everything he has to say, can fight back without being crippled by emotion.

_But no. We're gonna talk about frostbite._

I'm willing to admit that I'm curious, though, so I say, "No. What's it like?"

He draws in a breath through his teeth, the sound of sympathetic pain. "We-ell… this guy at the _asylum,_ he, uh—got _locked_ in the walk-in freezer in the cafeteria kitchen. He was on kitchen duty, went in to get _fries_ or something, and somehow… the _handle_ got broken off the outside door." His shoulders hunch up for a second in a perfect imitation of puzzlement. "No idea how _that_ happened.

" _Any_ way, he was in there for, uh… a _while._ By the time they noticed he was missing, he had _frostbite_ on _quite_ a few body parts. Most of 'em were fine, but you know, the _nose…_ it doesn't have bone in it, just _tissue_ and _harder tissue._ In the end, the docs couldn't _do_ anything for him. It _fell off_."

I stare at him as we walk. When he doesn't crinkle his eyes or make any indication that he was joking, I blink and repeat, "It _fell off_?"

"Yep."

I look down at my feet again, trying to wrap my head around the story. After a second, I look up at him and say, "Bullshit."

"No, scout's honor," he vows.

I frown, still not convinced. "What did _that_ look like?"

He tilts his head, half-shrugging. "Well, for a _while_ , it was all dead and _black,_ but eventually the doctors at the asylum figured they owed the fella something, seeing as it happened in _their_ place—forked over enough for the bare minimum of cosmetic _surgery._ Now he's just got this _flat_ spot in the middle of his face, two little holes in the center." He snorts, apparently amused at the recollection.

By this point, we've reached the car, and I put all thoughts of frostbitten noses out of my mind after deciding that it doesn't really matter if he's lying or not. The parking lot is empty, and as I slide in on the passenger side, he unzips the hoodie and drops it on the pavement, which is quickly gathering snow. He unfolds his coat and slips it on, and then climbs into the car with me, pulling the scarf from his face and tossing it to me. I bunch it up and put it at the floorboards at my feet, fully intending to leave it there for the rest of eternity now that _he's_ worn it.

As he turns the key in the ignition and puts the car in drive, I glance out the window at the snow, which seems to be picking up. _I_ know how to drive in snow, but it doesn't necessarily follow that he does (or that he's willing to take the extra precautions necessary), so I put on my seatbelt. He notices, giving me a sideways glance and a small twist of a smile. "Don't trust me?"

I snort. "Never have."

He winces. "Ooh, that _hurts._ "

"I'm sure it does," I mutter sarcastically. "It's true, though."

He guides the car onto the street before glancing at me again out of the corner of his eye. "You seemed pretty, ah, _trusting_ back there in the _bed_ room."

_Nope._ I twist in my seat so that I'm halfway facing him. "You really want to talk about what happened back there?"

"Do _you_?"

"I asked you first."

"Well, going by my… um, _considerable_ experience, I'd say women don't like being left _hanging_."

I stare at him, suddenly having misgivings about this particular topic of conversation, but after a second, I push myself forward with the thought _hell, it doesn't matter anymore, anyway. Let him try to embarrass me if he wants; I don't give a fuck._ "Okay, first of all, nobody likes being hanging, but trust me, it's a part of life, I'll get over it. Second, _you_ brought it up, and I'm pretty sure you didn't do it because you wanted to talk about _our relationship_ or _where this is going_ ," I say, embellishing the words with air quotes. "I think it's a lot more likely that you see some kind of opportunity, that you want to stick the knife in and twist it a little, so come on, let's have it."

He shoots me a _look_ , and I find myself wishing I hadn't gone with the knife metaphor. Aside from the obvious innuendo, it's quite possible that I'm giving him violent ideas. Even if I haven't, I may have just reminded him that he gave _me_ a knife—unused at this point, sure, but he may well want to confiscate it before whatever's going down tonight happens.

He doesn't comment on it, though, and for a second I think he's just going to ignore the bait just to show me he can. As usual, he defies my expectations. "I was just wondering, uh, if the would-be _tryst_ back there—which, I might point out, you were… _wholeheartedly_ participating in by the end—means you've re-examined your _stance_ on me."

"You mean," I say, clarifying because he never seems willing to do so, "my stance on your theory that I've been weirdly secretly in love with you from the start?"

"Hey, _I_ never said _in love_ ," he says, lifting his fingers from the wheel to express his innocence, and I suppress the urge to tell him _hands at ten and two, you jerk, we're driving into a snowstorm._ He might be letting me get away with _some_ sarcasm, but almost every time I've devolved to name-calling, it's ended badly for me.

"No," I mutter, hoping I don't sound as sullen as I feel. "You didn't." I take another minute to look at him, wondering if I should even bother to reply, knowing that he'll probably nag an answer out of me anyway. Finally, I reinforce myself with my new mantra— _fuck it; it doesn't matter anyway_ —and breathe in, shifting in my seat to face forward before answering, taking care to choose my words with caution so I won't give him the opportunity to twist them more than he already will.

"It's not love, and believe me, the first day we met, the only thing I felt for you was fear. I'm _still_ afraid of you, though I'm sure you know that."

"But?" he asks, his voice low and inviting. I don't trust it, but I go on telling the truth.

"But," I add reluctantly, "somewhere along the line, things got tangled up." It's getting harder to speak now, but I trust the little part of me that says that admitting this, _owning_ it and not pretending it doesn't exist, will reduce his power over me rather than increase it. At least, his _emotional_ power over me. I have a different plan entirely for breaking from his physical clutches.

I stare out of the windshield so I don't have to look at his face. "I hate what you do, I hate who you are—I hate that who you are, by definition, means that you are _never, ever_ serious and I will never get anything genuine from you, no matter how much I might want it. And the reason why I would even want it, the reason for that… _whatever_ -it-was back in the bedroom… is that since I met you, you've become the _only_ significant person in my life."

He doesn't speak. I feel compelled to go on: "And I _know_ that isolating me was at least part of your plan the first time around, and hell, you may have even known that after what happened at the warehouse, I'd start to withdraw from everyone around me. You may have been counting on it. I _know_ that, but even so, I can't seem to muster the contrariness to rebel against what you might be planning and become Miss Social Butterfly just to spite you. Basically—and this is the worst part, really—you've made me _dependent_ on you. It happened without my permission and I wish I could summon the will to reach out to other people and break whatever hold it is that you have on me, but there it is."

The confession is met with more silence, and the silence stretches out for an uncomfortable number of seconds. I sense that he's waiting for me to look at him, but I think if I glance over and see mockery on his face (as is more than likely), I'll shatter completely. Instead, I shake my hair back over my shoulder and say, viciously now, "And since I'm a healthy adult female with the regular amount of hormones, some of that dependence translates to sexual attraction, apparently. So _that's_ what happened in the bedroom. Just so you know."

More silence. Just when I'm starting to think I'm going to do something incredibly stupid like flick him in the face to make him respond, a soft chuckle ripples over from the driver's seat. Before I can force myself not to, I glance over, but he's just peering out the windshield at the oncoming snow. " _Wow,_ Em," he says after he's laughed at me for a second or thirty. "When did _you_ quit blushing and fainting, huh?"

I face front, suddenly tired again. "Probably when I accepted that I'm going to die at the conclusion of tonight's events and that dancing around the subject wasn't going to protect me."

He lets that pass without comment, and we drive for a few more minutes. The snow is gathering on the ground fast; it must be an inch high already, though the roads, probably salted hours ago, remain clear. With the white awnings and sidewalks, the chunky, rapidly falling snowflakes, and the backdrop of glittering skyscraper lights, the city looks like it came straight out of a fairy tale.

_A Grimm one, though,_ I think wryly, _the kind where all the heroes end up dead._

He speaks up again, taking on that peculiarly lighthearted tone of voice I've come to associate with taunting. "You know, I never asked, Em—how _old_ are you, anyway?"

I blink, turning to look at him. He glances quickly sideways at me, and, as if guessing the source of my bewilderment, he adds, "Well, _sure,_ age is a _construct,_ yada, yada… but it can be helpful, knowing where someone's s'posed to _be_ in her life based on the expectations that come with, uh, specific ages. I never quite _thought_ about _yours_."

_What the hell,_ I think again, and say, "Twenty-three. What about—?"

"Ah… ah, ah, ah," he says, lifting his right hand and wagging the index finger at me. "It'll be _better_ if you remember that… societal expectations never really _worked_ on me. My _age_ … won't tell you anything."

"I guess thirty-one."

He doesn't respond to that, expertly hijacking the conversation again. "Twenty-three, huh? What, uh—you should just be finishing _college_ , right? Embarking on a _promising_ career."

"I don't see your point."

" _Humor_ me. Before all this started—what was your _plan_?"

I sigh, leaning back against the window, eyes moving idly as I think back—and I start slightly as I realize that it's been so long since I thought about it that I actually have to dig for the memory.

"I was, um… I was in school for history. With a minor in psychology."

" _Was_?" he prompts deliberately.

"Yeah, I, uh—I was a semester and a half away from graduating when… when I met you. I dropped out for a while."

"You're going back?" he asks innocently. I give him a look, _are you kidding me_ , but he doesn't recant the question. I ignore it anyway, re-centering the conversation.

"I wanted to work for Gotham's Museum of Natural History. As a tour guide." I laugh a little, embarrassed, running my hand over my face. "I wasn't really planning to make a career of it; I guess I… figured I'd find my path as I went."

He shrugs. "Well, that makes you less pathetic than _most_ of the citizens of Gotham."

"Compliments from you aren't exactly in plentiful supply, so I'm going to take that as one, if you don't mind. Anyway, I've been working the lobby in a hotel in the meantime, though I think… I probably lost that job the night you picked me up."

" _Really_?" he asks, ears perking up. "How come?"

"I… may have punched a customer in the face," I admit. When this is met with silence, I glance over to see that he's… smiling, although he almost looks like he's trying not to. "What?" I demand.

"Nothing," he says, clearing his throat.

"Are you _laughing_ because I _hit a guy_?"

" _Me_? _No_. Not at all." He's lying, and really transparently, too, but before I can point this out, he gestures ahead of us, out through the windshield. "Heads up, kid. We're here."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Buckle up, y'all. It won't be long now.
> 
> Points to anyone who can identify the unfortunate figure in the Joker's frostbite story (who is definitely not my invention; I just tweaked one or two details to make him fit in this 'verse a little better).
> 
> Thanks to everyone who read and/or left kudos. :)


	17. Chapter 17

I look up as he hits the brakes, clutching the dashboard instinctively as we slide a few feet and bump sideways against a curb. I turn to glare at him, but he's already opening his door, so I unbuckle my seatbelt and move to follow suit a bit more slowly. By the time I emerge from the car, he's circled around to my side, and he takes my elbow as I close the door, pulling at me impatiently.

"All right, hold your horses," I growl, but, as usual, he takes no notice of me, pulling me along the sidewalk. As our feet crunch through the accumulated snow, I look around fast, trying to figure out where we are. As in my neighborhood, no one is out, but this isn't a residential area—it looks like more of a business district, albeit one under some construction. Buildings in various stages of completion line the block, though the one we're headed towards looks fairly polished—it's only the sign on the door with the name of the business and the expected opening date (a date several weeks from now) that tells me it's unoccupied. The glass entry door has been broken, though I see no signs of anyone who might have done it.

He edges through the door, pulling me through, and I manage to get through with no more damage than a slight tear to my sleeve from one of the remaining glass fragments. He paces across the empty, dark lobby, taking long strides, and I complain: "Are you _really_ in that much of a hurry? Some of us are, you know—short."

"Timing is _important,_ Em," he mutters, pushing open the door to a stairwell and jerking me in behind him. "As, uh… laid-back as I am, sometimes, ya gotta _hustle_."

I don't complain anymore, because it strikes me that the stairwell is particularly dark and his grip might be the only thing keeping me upright (of course, I'd have an easier time keeping my balance if a certain someone wasn't practically yanking me off my feet, but it seems petty to point that out now). I lose count of how many flights we ascend before he pushes open a door and pulls me into what looks like an unfinished office floor—there's no electricity, but the street lamps reflecting off the snow outside send plentiful light in through the floor-length windows lining the walls.

Someone's waiting for us—a single man, dressed in street clothes but wearing a clown mask. He turns as we enter, and starts towards us, but the Joker cuts him off with a sharp, decisive hand motion, hissing, "Get the ties."

"You're kidding," I mutter as the henchman turns to a work bench set up nearby. The Joker ignores me, pulling me over towards the window and then letting me go as he peers out. Annoyed but curious, I follow his gaze across the street to a parking garage—also under construction, judging by the scaffolding lining the outside and the lack of finished walls, though in contrast to _this_ building, the interior seems well lit.

The henchman approaches me, holding several plastic utility strips. I glance at him, and then look at the Joker indignantly. "Really?"

"Don't make a _fuss_ ," he advises, still scoping out the garage. "If you do, _Sneezy_ here is gonna have to tie you even _tighter_."

I heave a heavy sigh just so they know how not-okay I am with this plan and turn around, putting my hands behind my back, placing the back of my right hand strategically over the slight bulge in my back pocket. As Sneezy locks one of the strips around my wrist and then winds the second strip through the first, I say, "I thought the shootout last night made you wary of your henchmen for the time being. You know, with the apparent _betrayal_ and all." I wince as Sneezy pulls the second strip particularly tight and turn my head to glare at him.

"Yep, well—needs must," he says absently, and as the clown finishes tying me, he turns around to face us. Pointing at me but addressing Sneezy, he says, " _You_ keep an eye on _her._ "

He pauses, then advances a few steps until he's looking directly down into the eyes of Sneezy's mask. Bringing his hands up, palms parallel and fingers outstretched, he rests them gently against the clown's chest and says emphatically, " _Don't—do—anything_ … until you hear from me. Understand?"

"Yes, Mr. Joker, sir," Sneezy answers immediately.

The Joker nods, clapping him on the side of the head and striding past. "Good boy."

He heads back to the doorway leading to the stairs. I turn to watch him, and once he's halfway across the room, I call after him: "What am _I_ supposed to do?"

He swivels, walking backwards as he looks at me, flashing a grin. "You? _You_ just sit there and look pretty."

I huff softly in annoyance as he spins around and pushes through the door to the stairs. I hear his footsteps retreating down again, and after a second, I turn to look at the henchman, jerking my chin at him. "How's it going."

He ignores me, just standing creepily still. I don't take it personally; in my experience, Joker henchmen either (ironically) have no sense of humor or are out of their minds. I return to the window, looking down on the street in time to see the Joker crossing over towards the parking garage. Through the snow, I can see two more figures standing by the entrance, and though it's difficult to make out detail, the white smudges of their heads make me think that they're also in clown masks.

_That's his final stage, then._

I glance over at Sneezy, who's still watching me, like he was told. Slowly, I slide down to the floor, sitting down facing him, hoping that he'll let his guard down a little once he sees that I'm in a docile position, and I look him over quickly. There's a pistol holstered at his hip, and hanging from the opposite hip is a radio. My guess is that there's another radio—or several—in the parking garage across the street, allowing for communication.

I'm starting to get a bad feeling about this. _What did he mean, don't do anything_ _ **until**_ _he says?_

Unwilling to hypothesize an answer until I know a little more, I keep watching even as I pat the knife in my pocket just to ensure it's still there. I'm dying to cut myself free, but I can't help but remember— _timing is important._ If I make a bid for freedom too soon, especially with Sneezy watching me like a hawk, I could ruin everything, so I force myself to stay patient, looking out the window at the parking garage.

For a few minutes, I don't see anything of note except for shadows moving. _They're on the fourth floor._ After a while, though, headlights illuminate the street, and I quickly realize that the van approaching probably isn't a civilian vehicle, judging from the haphazard driving. It slides to a stop in front of the parking garage, and a man jumps out of the driver's side, circling around to the back. He opens the door, blocking my view (which isn't helped by the heavy snow), but after a second, he emerges on the sidewalk with a colleague, and between them—

I've never met the man, but judging by the fact that his hands appear to be tied behind his back and there's what looks like a bag over his head, I'm willing to guess that their captive is Alberto Falcone. He's tall and thin, and he struggles against the clowns, but his panic combined with the snowy sidewalk works against him—he can't get enough traction to put up a real fight.

I glance at Sneezy. He's looking intently out the window, and taking advantage of his moment of distraction, I shift to get to my knife, forcing myself to watch the scene below rather than staring at him—nothing says _I'm trying to escape_ like watching your captor fearfully to see if he's looking.

I work the knife free from my pocket and clutch it securely in my hand. Now that I've got it, of course, the fear starts brewing— _I've never actually used this; what if it's too dull—or worse, a trick knife? That'd be right up his alley._

I force myself to stay calm despite the doubts, and carefully, I feel for the switch to unlock the folded blade. Triggering it, I guide the blade out, clicking it into place as quietly as possible. It makes a tiny sound, though, and by reflex, I freeze and look at Sneezy.

He's staring right at me—at least, his mask is turned squarely in my direction. Immediately, I jerk my head towards the window, playing for a distraction. "That Alberto Falcone?"

He turns his head back to the window. Below, the clowns are wrestling their victim into the parking garage. I test the edge of the blade with a fingertip. _Sharp. Good._

Despite Sneezy's reticence, I keep talking, realizing that it would be wise to cover any sounds that might result from my attempt to free myself. "Do you know where they got him? Because if I was Falcone, after his little shootout failed so spectacularly, I'd be getting my ass to a safe house." I turn the blade in my hand carefully, making sure my grip on it is secure before I press it against the tie on my left hand and start applying pressure. I go on: "I mean, bragging rights or not, he _had_ to realize there was no way he was gonna hit the Joker before Christmas, and furthermore, that he'd put himself on the Joker's naughty list in a _big_ way."

Sneezy speaks, startling me. "He was in-transit."

I frown. "They nabbed him while he was on the way to a hideout? I mean… Christmas Eve or not, that had to generate some heat."

He glances at me, then looks back out the window. I think hard as I saw at my binding as quietly as possible, the plastic digging into my wrist in protest to the pull of the blade.

_Even if they shook the police, by all accounts Batman is a little harder to get rid of, especially if he's actively tracking Joker henchmen. I'd bet money that he shows up soon._

My eyes widen as everything clicks into place. _That's why I'm in this building_. Batman's going to follow the clowns to the parking garage—he may stop the Joker from killing Falcone, he may not. It doesn't matter, because I'm the ace up the Joker's sleeve.

The second Batman arrives and starts throwing a wrench in the Falcone business, the Joker's going to contact Sneezy on the radio, and Sneezy is going to put a bullet into my head. If Falcone and I both end up dead, Batman loses. If Falcone lives and I die, Batman loses twice over, because in the eyes of the media, he will have chosen to save the life of a crime boss over that of a supposedly innocent kidnapped girl—and they won't care if he knew he was making that choice or not. It doesn't take much to make everyone go for the throat of someone most of the city already hates, anyway.

My eyes narrow. _Well. If I'm dying tonight, I might as well do it trying to thwart the Joker's master plan._

At this moment, two very distinctly important things happen.

First, the knife finally passes through the plastic with a fairly audible snap, but my fear that Sneezy will notice disappears as I spot Event Number Two: a large black shadow cutting through the snow and landing on the roof of the parking garage.

Sneezy immediately reaches for his radio, and as he keys it, he makes the mistake of turning his back to me. I struggle upright, and as he speaks urgently into the radio ("Boss, we have a bat sighting… he's on the roof, comin' atchya"), I take a sharp breath and charge at his back.

He's bigger than me, but not by much, and the element of surprise is on my side. I take him down to the floor, and as he scrabbles at his hip for his gun, I plant my knee in the center of his spine and jab the knife into his lower back several times—the blade isn't very long and I doubt I'm doing any lethal damage, but it's gotta hurt like hell.

As he howls, I jump off of him. He starts climbing to his hands and knees, but the mask has twisted around, eyeholes out of place, and he doesn't see my foot swinging hard at his face. I make solid contact, so hard that it stings my foot even through the boot, and he crumples. For good measure, I kick him in the side of his head again, and when he doesn't move or moan in pain, I stoop fast and grab at the gun. I have to wrestle it out of the holster, and then I'm up again, racing across the office floor, blood pounding in my ears.

I rush down the pitch black staircases as quickly as I'm reasonably able, aware that stumbling could mean misfire, and with the Joker's luck, a ricocheting bullet would find its way right between my eyes. Even taking my time, it feels like only seconds before there are no stairs left and I grope quickly for the exit.

The lobby is still empty. I run across it, tearing my sweater again on the edge of the broken door, and then I'm in the street. The wind of the snowstorm isn't loud enough to block out the sound of gunfire coming from the parking garage, and a quick glance at the fourth floor reveals abruptly-moving shadows.

I cross the street into the parking garage, which is considerably better-lit. The staircase is on my immediate right, not walled in, and I jog up as quickly as I can, my breath coming a bit faster now—but this time, I have the benefits of a good night's sleep and some food in my stomach. I don't have time to think or plan out my movements; I'm acting on blind instinct and the need to _be there_ for the end.

In no time at all, I reach the fourth floor. It's scattered with working materials and work lights glare harshly from the rafters, but the floor seems solid enough—as I step out onto it, I notice two clowns, unconscious already. _He works fast._ As I go further, I spot a dark-haired man in a suit, eyes staring unseeingly towards the ceiling, a red stain blossoming on his shirt.

I don't spare any emotion for Alberto Falcone. I'm more concerned with the fact that I don't see the Joker or Batman… but the unconscious figures of Joker henchman are scattered along the upward ramp like so many breadcrumbs, giving me a pretty good idea of where to look.

I follow the ramp, circle a wall—and there they are, not five feet in front of me, near the unfinished edge of the ramp duking it out, the Joker using a combination of evasion tactics and dirty fighting to stay in the game. Batman's back is to me, and I come to a grinding halt as he lands a crushing blow to the Joker's ribs—but the clown appears unfazed, slithering away from Batman's grip and thrusting jerkily with a knife, which, judging by the Batman's muted roar, finds a home between the armor plates. He retaliates with a fist to the Joker's jaw, sending him reeling backwards.

So watching the Joker get beaten up isn't exactly unpleasant, but in the fire of the moment, hearing only the sound of their blows finding targets and the blood rushing in my ears, I only want one thing. I look around quickly for inspiration.

Batman corners the Joker against the edge of the ramp, where he has nowhere to go unless he wants to drop down fifteen feet to the next level, and starts drilling blows to his torso. A particularly vicious kick knocks his legs out from beneath him, and the Joker collapses to the ground—

And, with a two-by-four I picked up from a pile lying nearby, I swing at Batman's head with all my might. He's turning his head— _he must have noticed me; he probably wants to check on me_ , and I ignore the pang of guilt that flashes through my chest at the thought—and catches half a face full of board, staggering one step before falling hard off the ledge.

I toss the board to the side, heart beating fast, knowing that Batman's not known for going down for long. I have minutes at best, possibly only seconds if the blow was more of a glancing one than I think, and after bending to pick up the gun I'd set temporarily on the ground, I rush towards the Joker, dropping to a crouch in front of him as he struggles to sit up.

"Shh. Shh. You listen to me now, okay? I only have a few seconds. This is important."

His eyes flick up and rest on my face, a little dazed, like he's not sure it's really me. He looks like he's about to try to stand, but he doesn't look so great—I reach out a hand and grasp his shoulder, partly to steady him, partly to keep him down here with me. He lifts his hand, covers mine with it, squeezes a little too hard. I don't pull away. I look steadily into his eyes and draw a sharp breath.

"I think you left that knife with me on purpose. You knew I'd get away, and I think that's because at this moment, you have no interest in killing me. Actually, I think when you adopt a new pet—and I have no idea how often this happens; it's not like I have a basis for comparison—but I think you're less likely to kill your playmates. I think you'd rather see what it takes to make us kill ourselves."

He's blinked away most of the disorientation now, and the black pinpoints of his pupils are fixed firmly on me. I get the feeling that I've got his absolute and rapt attention for the first time since the day we met, so now seems as good a time as any to lift the gun and place the icy barrel (which is about to heat up any minute now) against my temple.

His eyes stray to the gun and then snap back to mine. The bloody tip of his tongue comes out to wet his top lip.

My voice is shaking, but I force myself to get it out. "Believe me, I know I'm only giving you what you want. I don't like that idea, but I've thought it through. You heard what I said in the car; this is the only way I can ever get truly free of you. You won't do it for me; fair enough. I'll do it myself."

His fingertips with their jagged nails are biting hard into the back of my hand. I swallow, aware that I only have seconds. My eyes are dry as I wind up: "And I figure that since this is all your doing, anyway, you should at least get to watch."

Since I'm already on his level, I don't see the harm in leaning forward for one more fast kiss: I think I can feel him grinning against my mouth, but when I pull back a second later, he looks somber, a little pained, even. I look him in the eyes, and as he releases my hand, he nods, almost imperceptibly. I nod back.

"Goodbye," I say softly.

And then redirect the gun barrel from my temple to his kneecap and pull the trigger, my cry of " _Psyche!_ " swallowed up by the sound of the gun firing.

The sound he makes is gratifyingly human, doubly so considering what he's put me through over the past few days—masochist or not, no one can get an unexpected bullet to the knee and play it cool. I throw myself backwards, out of his reach, lest he take it upon himself to go for revenge sooner rather than later, and as soon as I'm out of range, I start laughing.

_Tone it down,_ I caution myself, _he may still have a gun or several on him_ —but it's no good, I'm sick of biting my tongue, and as I sit up straight and grip my ankles, the words are spilling out, half-hysterical: "Oh, God, you _believed_ me! No, no— _no,_ it's not happening that easily." The tears that have sprung up in my eyes are, I hope, from the laughter, and they make me realize I need to get myself under control, _quickly_. Trying to catch my breath, still giggling sporadically, I add, "Fact is… after some food and sleep, I realized that escaping you forever—not really that high on my list. Temporarily, sure, but that little conversation we had in the car made me realize something—I can't _have_ a normal life, so why stress about it, huh? If this is my life now, then fine—bring it on. Let's see how far we can go."

I climb abruptly to my feet and look over my shoulder, but there's no sign of Batman, henchmen, or police. It's just him and me, and I stare down at him without pity. He's hunched over, unresponsive, clutching his blown out kneecap, head down and matted hair concealing his face, shoulders shaking. "Just don't forget," I say gently, all laughter gone, impossibly, without a trace. "I know what your blood tastes like."

The words hang in the air between us. The city is full of noise, even on a relatively quiet Christmas night like this, but it's faded to white in the immediacy of _this_. After studying him for a few more seconds, I add, quietly, "But right now, it looks like you're going back to jail, and I'm going home for some rest. Further games are gonna have to wait, but look me up when that heals."

I turn and head towards the staircase in the back corner. Before I can make it three steps, I start to hear his cackle, which escalates rapidly to loud whoops of delight, necessitating frequent gasps for air. I pause and glance back at him.

His head is up, face creased in macabre amusement, and he stabs his pointer finger at me over and over. As soon as he can manage it, he howls, "You—you wanna _think_ about that, Em? Challenging _me_ — _some_ people would say you've _lost_ it!"

I pause, give that a moment's thought, and shrug. "I dunno. Maybe I have, I don't know, I'm not a shrink. I _do_ know that the possibility scares me way less than it used to, so you may be right."

I wait, but his shrieks of laughter overwhelm him again. I figure I've lingered long enough. Stooping to set the gun on the garage floor, I then straighten and make a run for the stairs. As I half-run, half-tumble down staircase after staircase, I wonder what happened to Batman, but soon enough, I get some kind of answer—I can hear the sounds of police approaching over the howl of the wind (which, in turn, has become indistinguishable from the laughter of the madman above me).

I breathe in deep and run down, towards the sirens.


	18. epilogue

I'm back in the police station.

Idly, I indulge in a moment of pity for the people who work here. I've come to detest this place after only a few hours total spent inside—it's cold, full of hard surfaces and sharp angles, and the lighting is migraine-inducing.

The fluorescent bulbs, however, have a very interesting effect—they make my bruises look ghastly, like they're popping out of skin that looks even sicklier and paler than usual under this light. I've been entertaining myself for a while, examining each wound under these bulbs and taking a sort of sick delight in how awful they all look, but bruise-hunting can only keep one occupied for so long. I'm starting to get a little impatient, sitting at the table in this little room—it's not an interrogation room; no one's treated me like a suspect so far, so I've got windows that look out over a portion of the rest of the station, but it's still cold and I've already been here for far too long, in my estimation.

I glance over at the windows now, and unexpectedly, I see a familiar face headed down the hall, presumably coming to see me.

The brittle confidence I've been operating on ever since I first put that gun to my own head shatters at the first sight of Commissioner Gordon I've had in months, replaced by a sudden sense of frailty and, for some reason, fear. I suddenly realize with unexpected focus that currently, he is the only person in my life who has never wronged me nor (I hope) been wronged by me.

This understanding comes a bit hard on the heels of the three days and four nights spent with the only _other_ person in the city I really know, someone from whom the best I can hope for is a twisted funny story or a brief, incomplete roll in the sheets.

He's getting closer. I quickly order myself to _pull it together_ before I do something embarrassing like start crying. By the time he buzzes the door open and comes into the room, I've recovered enough from the unexpected wave of emotion to look up, give him a wry grin, and quip, "So, did you lock the Grinch away and save Christmas?"

His mustache twitches, but his eyes are tired. "He's in the hospital under armed guard. Pretty banged up, but nothing fatal. He'll go back to Arkham in the morning."

I barely hear him. I've just realized something, and my eyes widen in horror. Gordon tenses, clearly alarmed, but when I blurt out, "Holy—it's _Christmas;_ what are you _doing_ here?", he relaxes, and this time, his smile is a bit more genuine.

"There's plenty of time before the kids wake up," he assures me, but that only makes it worse.

"Aw, man—you've got _kids_ ," I moan, burying my face in my hands. "I'm _sorry_ for dragging you—"

"Emma," he says gently, but emphatically enough to make me stop. "I wouldn't be able to sleep after I heard, anyway. In my experience, leaving Joker-related crimes till morning isn't a good idea."

I stare at him for a moment before his earnest expression convinces me that he's not making this up just to reassure me. With a sigh, I sit back, and he takes this as his cue: " _However_ …"

My eyes flick back to his, and he scrutinizes me closely for a second, maybe evaluating my current level of mental health (it's been better, but I do my best to look as sane as possible), before going on. "We've got an awful big mess out there. It would help—a _lot_ —if you filled in as many of the gaps as you were able."

I'm nodding before he finishes. "The Joker took me after midnight on December twenty-first, and I've been with him almost constantly since then. I can give you a thorough statement, and I'm pretty sure that between the information you have and what I can tell you, you'll be able to patch up a lot of holes in the story."

Gordon stares at me briefly, and I can't quite read the look in his eyes. It looks a little something like sympathy, but there's something personal in it—maybe he's imagining his own child sitting where I am, looking like hell under these lights. Whatever it is, it's gone in a second, and he nods. "Okay. Let me get us some coffee and we can get started."

And so, I spend the first couple of hours of my twenty-fourth Christmas sitting in a little conference room in the Gotham Police Department, telling my story to the only person in the city I trust. The weird thing is, now that my family's all gone and I've more or less cut off any social connections, Gordon is the best possible company I could ask for—even if I _do_ feel considerably guilty that I'm taking him from his family at Christmas. He seems to wish nothing but the best for me, and I don't have to worry about him hitting, shooting, or stabbing me at a second's notice—after the past few days, being able to let my guard down a little and feel _safe_ is a genuine luxury.

I try to be as concise as possible, and Gordon interrupts infrequently and only then to ask for clarification on the foggier points, jotting down notes on a clipboard. I tell him everything, even if it means having to spend extra time dealing with the courts in the aftermath, because I trust him to make sure no one tries to pin the Joker's crimes on me.

When I finally finish, he sits back and releases a long sigh. By this point, it's after two in the morning, and I move to stretch, feeling suddenly cramped.

"You're right," he says finally. "That does explain a few things. As far as giving testimony… they'll probably need you when they're looking at Officer Robinson's case, but I don't think you have to worry about stabbing that clown tonight, or shooting the Joker. They were trying to hold you against your will; no judge in the system is gonna fault you for that. We're gonna need you to stick around until we sort this mess out, but Miss Vane…"

"I know," I say, meeting his eyes. "Gotham and I are done. I'm already thinking of potential places to move—not that I think it'll dissuade him if he _does_ break out and decide to come after me again, but obviously, sticking around didn't help, so I'm going to step up my game. Get out of the city."

"I think that's a wise decision," he says, looking relieved that I didn't shoot the suggestion down again. "Mind you, we have no intention of letting the Joker escape again, but—"

"But he does show an unnerving tendency for finding weak spots, I know," I say with a little, humorless smile. After a second, the sardonic expression fades, and I look down at the table. "Um… about… well—I know he's technically wanted by the police, but… I don't know. If you ever get the opportunity to talk to Batman for any reason… maybe let him know that I'm sorry for bashing him in the head with a two-by-four. I really am."

I look up again. Gordon's watching me, his face inscrutable, and I gesture feebly. "I wanted to talk to the Joker. I didn't think he'd let me anywhere near him, which is to his credit, by the way—he was in that garage to save Falcone _and_ me. In fact, he's never done anything but look out for me, and I sure picked a shitty way of repaying him. I don't know, he may come after me before I get out of here and give me the opportunity to tell him myself, but I just want to put it out there."

"I understand," says Gordon.

After a few seconds' silence, he clears his throat. "Um—I'm going to look into getting you witness protection. It's not the usual circumstances, but the city knows how dangerous the Joker is, so I'll see what I can find."

I watch him, smiling vaguely. "Sure. Everything helps, I know. Frankly, I'm not too worried—I issued him a pretty broad challenge."

His forehead creases. "A challenge?"

"Yeah, I—I called him out. I made it clear that I was expecting him to come after me again, and I… might have indicated that I was looking forward to it." At his skeptical look, I hurry to explain: "Because if the Joker's anything, he's contrary. If he thinks I'm living in anticipation of his next _visit,_ he may well withhold it from me."

Gordon frowns. "You think he'll stay away just because you told him _not_ to?"

I shrug. "From what I've seen, the odds are pretty good. Still, on the slight chance that he gets bored, finds his way back to me again, let me assure you—I intend to be ready for him."

**fin**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And that's it for this installment! I just want to say a heartfelt thank-you to everyone who read, left kudos, and commented. It's a wonderful, tremendous thing to offer encouragement to a writer whose only pay is your enthusiasm (and of course the privilege of being able to play in a world she loves), so thank you all for keeping me going. Here's to you, and I hope to see you next time around!


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